


Sticking the Landing

by SweetMandolins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Bisexual John Watson, Ensemble Cast, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gymnast!John, Gymnastics, Humor, Jealous John, John "Three Continents" Watson, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Men's Artistic Gymnastics, Muscles, Muscular!John, Mutual Pining, Teensy Dash of Mystrade, ballet!lock, rhythmic gymnastics - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8797708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetMandolins/pseuds/SweetMandolins
Summary: John Watson, Captain of Team GB’s gymnastics squad is confident and primed for his third and final Olympics.  Disappointed in London with a shoulder injury putting paid to his Olympic dream, can he secure an Olympic gold finish before retirement?    Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes has other problems.  Men’s Rhythmic Gymnastics is the newest Olympic sport, but a series of peculiar accidents both on and off the floor have taken out some of the competitors.  Does something more sinister lurk under the spangles and spandex?  Can Sherlock solve the mystery in time to deliver a flawless ball routine?  And does something more valuable than medals await the boys in Rio?This story is COMPLETE - daily updates for the next 14 days (just like the real Olympics!)





	1. August 5th, Maracanã Stadium, Rio de Janeiro

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with either Sherlock or the Olympic movement in any way, shape or form, except for being glued to my TV whenever they are on. 
> 
> It has been my great good fortune to have this work beta'd by [mydeardoctor](http://mydeardoctor.tumblr.com/). She was of huge assistance to me in controlling unruly tenses, shining a light on slacking sentences, detecting incorrect use of the word 'pants', and generally reassuring and assisting this novice author. The title was also her suggestion. A thousand thanks to you, Kayleigh; you were the first person to enjoy reading this story, the writing of which I enjoyed so much; and that's pretty special for me. I am terrifically grateful for your assistance.
> 
> I must also acknowledge at the start the amazing resource that is the [Sherlock transcripts by Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/). Whenever you see dialogue from the show in this work (and there's a lot), this assisted. My most humble thanks and appreciation of this gift to the fandom.
> 
> Despite this being posted in December, it was originally conceived as part of the [Sherlock Sports Challenge](http://sherlocksportschallenge.tumblr.com/). Go check out all the stories in the collection, if you haven't already.
> 
> [Come and find me on tumblr](http://sweetmandolins.tumblr.com/).

Th _e noise_. His third opening ceremony, and somehow he’d forgotten about the noise. The music of the ceremony outside, echoed by the sound coming from the live telecast screen for the athletes inside. And the noise from the athletes – a constant anticipatory buzz punctuated by laughter, shouts and the occasional shriek echoed through the cavernous backstage area. A sea of blue and white coats surrounded him – this, then was team GB, practically bouncing off the walls and eager to get started.

John snapped a quick photo on his phone before putting it carefully back in his jacket. Stamford, Murray and Knight to his left, chatting animatedly and gesturing up to the big screen where the dancers looked to be creating sculptures with big ribbons? Or elastic bands?  The commentary was impossible to hear clearly, so no help there. Anderson didn’t seem to be with them though, which was always a worry.

The rhythmic gymnastics team was standing in a tight huddle.  Molly was there, one down, excellent. Sarah and Mary next to her, phones out above the crowd. Soo Lin looking collected, Anthea staring at the screen of her phone; five from five, then.

The women’s artistic team in a loose group – and John cursed himself for not trying with their names, instead having mentally catalogued them as the one with the hair (Tessa? Gemma?), the one with the nose (Louise?), the one with the spots (was that Gemma?), the one with the freckles, and the flirty one (Jeanette). Well, they all seemed to be there, at any rate.

Christ, there was Anderson – shadow boxing whilst unsuccessfully attempting to look subtly over at – was it spots? Freckles? No, he was looking at Sally. Sally?? Surely, the woman had better sense. You didn’t get to the Olympics without a good sense of self preservation, especially in a brutal sport like gymnastics. Surely, she wouldn’t look twice at Anderson poncing around like the terrible, horrible lovechild of Sly Stallone and Jean-Claude Van Damme. _Please, God, let her not,_ thought John fervently.   _No-one wants to hear about that_.

“Oh my GOD Anthea look!! LOOK!! It’s him! Isn’t it? Michael Phelps!!!”

John looked up at the sound of Sally’s screeching, getting up on his toes to peer over the heads of his teammates to look for the American superstar.

“Not tall enough,” was the disinterested response from Anthea, barely glancing away from her Blackberry.

“Was that a reference to me? Because I’ll have you know I’m bigger than I look,” said John, eyebrows waggling.

“Not tall enough to spot Phelpsy though are you mate?” said Stamford with a clap on his back and a “No chance there mate, I heard she and Soo Lin have a thing going on” muttered in his ear.

“Really? God, people train overseas and you miss out on all the goss.”

“Not to worry Johnny… plenty of talent here,” reassured Murray with a speculative look out over the crowd.

“Haha yeah! Three Continents Watson, isn’t it!” exclaimed Knight. “I heard it’s because in the London village you pulled someone from three continents in a single day! Is that true??”

Bill and Mike smirked at John as he tried to formulate an appropriately professional response. But Knight was still going – “and I heard they just have condoms lying around in bowls on the tables? And you just grab them? Is that true? And I heard people have sex in the ice baths? And in the…”

John’s mind was suddenly filled with images of two blue-lipped athletes attempting to have freezing, shivery sex in an ice bath. An _ice bath_?!  Think of the shrinkage! _My God,_ thought John dazedly as he listened to Knight carry on, _was I ever this young_? 

John looked up to the telecast screen. Some guy in a CGI airplane was flying past the statue of Christ the Redeemer, which seemed an appropriate message, considering, John thought gloomily.

 “Henry!” John interrupted with no small degree of desperation. “Think of that after the comp, right? Focus! And yes, safe sex!  Look!” he flailed an arm at the screen, desperate to distract from the dissection of his sex life by a kid just out of school, “Gisele Bündchen!”

Looking at everyone swaying to “the Girl from Ipanema,” it would have been easily to think he’d got away with it, smiling as he saw Mike sweep Molly into a small dip at the song’s finish. But no such luck.

“Well, I bet I can get someone from all eight continents by the closing ceremony. Show you a thing or two, old man,” chipped in Anderson.

“Er, pretty sure there’s only seven continents actually,” said Knight helpfully.

“Well, all seven then.” The man really was an idiot.

“And I’m quite certain Antarctica doesn’t field an Olympic team,” came a deep, posh voice from behind John’s ear.

“Well then all four!” Honestly, he must never be allowed to do any interviews, it would be bad for the team.

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole stadium,” said the plummy voice. John struggled not to snort.

John turned and struggled again, this time to keep his jaw from falling. The man was _gorgeous_. Tall, a head taller at least than John. The uniform’s white shorts left his calves exposed – pale skin that seemed to go on forever, his calves long and lightly muscled.  Every male athlete, John included, was sporting the navy blue uniform coat – but on this man, the coat was something else. He’d popped the collar – the strong angles of the coat echoed in cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them. John’s eye helplessly followed the collar’s lines to where the coat nestled under a cascade of dark curls. Used to the utilitarian cuts of his male teammates or the slicked back hair of the women – achieved with some dark, ozone depleting art no doubt – the man’s wild curls seemed somehow indecent, and John’s hands closed involuntarily, imagining how they might feel under his fingertips. His eyes, a piercing blue even in the dim light of the backstage hall. And those lips – that defined Cupid’s bow – oh, God. But, Oh God! The lips John was mooning over were moving and John had missed everything being said and now this long tall drink of gorgeous was looking at John expectantly. John’s brain kicked back in. Or made some sort of attempt, anyway. “Stunning! Er, the ceremony I mean! Amazing, isn’t it? So, welcome to Rio! To the team, I mean.”

_God, really, brain?  This is the best you can do??_

“Yes, well, thanks?”

John suddenly noticed the noise level increasing – the athletes must have started to march out.  John looked up, trying to quash a sudden flurry of nerves. “So, uh, what’s your name? Are these your first games?” 

The man made a vague hum of agreement, looking above John’s head at the crowd as it wound through the serpentine barriers, slowly being funnelled out to the stadium floor. “Rings or the High Bar?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Your injury. Which was it, rings or the high bar?”

“Rings, but…”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking and when I’m sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? As Captain, you should know the worst about your charges.”

John’s brain finally showed signs of life as they jostled around a corner. “Ah, you must be Sherlock Holmes! Good to meet you, finally!” he was nearly shouting to be heard over the crowd. The noise – God, it got into the body and echoed around the hollow spaces inside. You could feel the noise in your bones. Sherlock look pleased – a small smile quirked up the side of his mouth.

“But you don’t know any of my dark secrets – that’s hardly fair, is it?”

Sherlock’s breath was hot on John’s ear as he bent down, his voice low and fast. “I know you’re an artistic gymnast and you were injured in a fall from the rings. Left shoulder. You’re a medical student, not yet graduated because you can only study part time, at either Bart’s or Imperial. Thinking about the army after graduation but you’re not sure what to do with your life. You’ve got a brother, but you won’t go to him for advice, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know these will be your last Olympics before retirement and you feel like you’ve got something to prove here. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

Sherlock straightened up and stepped away. Dazzled, John’s eyes followed as Sherlock vanished into a sea of blue and white jackets. John followed him into the stadium, into a cacophony of applause, into a dazzle of camera flashes and mobile phone screens, into the beginning of the end of his career. The Games of the 31st Olympiad were on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am an A-grade Olympics nerd, I'll be posting some bits and pieces at the end of each chapter about the games.
> 
> Did you know the Team GB kit was designed by Stella McCartney (noted designer and daughter of Sir Paul)? [Here's piece about the Opening Ceremony outfits](https://www.dezeen.com/2016/08/05/stella-mccartney-adidas-team-gb-opening-ceremony-outfits-rio-2016/). The coat, especially with the collar popped, is pretty Sherlockian. Here it is modelled by triathlete Alistair Brownlee. He went on to win a gold medal at Rio - looking good AND a champ. Nice.  
> 
> 
> The official Olympics YouTube channel has the full replay of the ceremony [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_qXm9HY9Ro). 
> 
> See you tomorrow for practice sessions!


	2. August 6th, The Athlete’s Park

John eyed up the edge of the vaulting table as he bounced from foot to foot at the end of the runway. Catching Lestrade’s signal from the corner of his eye, he spat on his hands and reached down to grab a handful of powder, dusting off the excess in rapid swipes of his palms. _Step up. Salute. Run. Bounce. Right hand spring. Two front turns. Land (stuck). Come on, Watson, we can do this!_

_Run. Bounce. Right hand spring. Two front turns. Land. Hop. Bugger!_

“Oh, Watson, try harder!”

John rolled his eyes at Anderson’s back as he jumped down from the landing zone.

“Dirty, Watson, and not in a good way. Foot position on the springboard. And Anderson, shut it!” came the call back from Lestrade.

“Yes, Coach,” John muttered under his breath. Too short on the board meant too short in the air, unable to get enough time in the air to bring his legs completely back around underneath, and a little undignified hop was the result. John exhaled sharply – not just undignified, but costly in competition.

“Don’t dwell on it mate,” advised Stamford, clapping John on the back. “As long as Henry here doesn’t break something before tomorrow, ours won’t even count”.

Huffing a laugh, John turned to watch Henry Knight begin his sprint up to the vault; a roche with half turn. “Let’s see what he can do and… Ho ho! Nailed it!” Knight’s feet remained frozen on the floor as his head swivelled towards them, an expression of disbelieving delight on his face.

“Nice one mate!” John called up, applauding.  “Don’t look at us like you’re surprised though!”

“Place in the finals for you if you do that tomorrow, Knight, lovely work!” Knight swung a hand up to wave at Lestrade, acknowledging the feedback.

“Right, gents, nicely done. Five minutes before the rhythmic girls come in, so let’s have a round or two each. Knight, parallel bars. Anderson, high bar, and watch your landing; none of that mess from this morning. Stamford, pommel; Murray, back here on the vault. Watson on the floor. Let’s go!”

The team scattered to the various apparatuses around the gymnastics hall at the Athlete’s Park, the collection of huge tents that made up the training spaces for the athletes at these games. Taking his starting position at the corner of the sprung floor, John nodded at the assistant coach, focused on his first tumbling line, and started his routine.

Well, _that_ was a better landing, John thought to himself as he stuck his closing two and a half twist. Very tidy. Rolling his shoulders, John heard the rise of chatter outside the doors – the girls had arrived. Toeing the ground as the assistant coach ran through some minor points, John looked at the door from the corner of his eye.

“Mmm, yep,” he nodded to the coach, taking up his starting position again. With the first tumbling line done, he snuck a glance over at the door to see everyone milling around the entry – perfect. Taking position on the floor, he went into his air flare sequence – _time for a little Watson magic!_  Spinning on his hands, John swung his legs around and around before pivoting his legs up in the air, giving his best b-boy moves, popping up onto one hand and then the other, then back for another 360 spin before coming to rest gently on his side facing the room’s new occupants, elbow out, hand supporting his head, looking for all the world like he was propped up in bed, gazing at a lover. And to complete the routine? A sexy eyebrow wiggle at the room’s new occupants, of course.

“Won’t work on the judges, Watson!” hollered Lestrade. “Or on us, either, nice try though!” seconded Sally Donovan, next to Anthea who didn’t appear to have looked up from her phone at all.

“Yeah, I already have a boyfriend, sorry. Jim takes up so much of my time….” Molly broke off with a breathless giggle.

Winking at Sarah as she shook her head at him, John trotted over to grab his gear. Pulling on sweat pants over his shorts, he thought he saw Mary Morstan look him up and down. Perhaps not totally wasted, then. Turning around to yank a t-shirt over his bare chest, he suddenly noticed Sherlock Holmes, regarding John with a focused expression, ducking his eyes away when he became conscious of John’s returning his gaze. Catching up the rest of his stuff, John crossed over to him, snaking his way around the women’s team: some still stripping their shoes and tracksuits off, some already warming up on the floor.

“Hey! Sherlock! Didn’t expect to see you here!”

A quick glance from Sherlock as he stuffed shoes and socks into a duffel bag. “Yes, well. Not a huge amount of training space so I need to… share,” he bit out with a small moue of distaste.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” John replied, absently watching as Sherlock pulled down sweat pants to reveal dark grey tights.

Like a ballet dancer’s, John mused. “Is that what you wear in competition, too?  Like a ballet outfit?”

Sherlock’s made an indistinct noise, reply muffled inside his hoodie as he pulled it over his head. “Something like that, yes… John?”

John startled back into awareness. “Oh sorry, I was just looking at your hair.”

“My hair?”

“Yeah, uh, your jumper um, disturbed it a bit...” John gestured vaguely at his own head in increasingly mortifying explanation.

“Well…. if you’re finished enquiring about my clothes and hair, I do have some work to do here,” Sherlock said, looking down at John from his full height.

“Yes, yes of course. Well, see you ‘round the village I s’pose? Best of luck with the training!” Fumbling his goodbyes, John backed towards the doors and blissful oblivion.

“Right, lads,” said Lestrade. “Qualifiers tomorrow, you don’t need me to tell you how important this is. The bus will go from the village at 8:30. You will all be at the bus stop at 8:15 or so help me God, whatever happens to you will not be my division. Go warm down now, gentle walking and stretching. See you bright and early – bring the great!”  The men around him muttered various acknowledgements, trailing behind their coach out of the training park, meandering back in the direction of the Olympic village.  John scrubbed his hand through his hair as he brought up the rear.

“Here, mate, reckon you could use this.”

“Ah, cheers, Bill, perfect,” John grabbed the sports drink Murray was offering him gratefully.

“What was that back there? That wasn’t Three Continents Watson, the lover of international volleyballers and badminton players we know and love. Aiming for something closer to home are we?”

“Shut up, Bill, what do you know about it,” John grumbled. “I need to eat. Protein shake or something.”.

“Is that a crude fellatio reference, Watson, because as your roommate, there are some things I do not want to… ow!”

“Well, if you can’t get out of the way fast enough, whose fault is that?”

“Calm down, Mister Smooth,” laughed Bill, rubbing at his arm. “At least I can get out of my own way when chatting someone up!”

“Oh my God, Bill, tell me. Was it that awful?” John looked imploringly at his long-time training partner and roomie from the London Olympic village.

“Mate, how is that even a question? It was shocking and you know it. Not all the muscles in the world will help you with that one, I don’t think.” John groaned.

“Don’t fret mate. Focus on tomorrow – there’s no aphrodisiac like a gold medal, I’ve heard. All the nice boys love a medallist!” And with a slap to John’s back that sent him stumbling, Bill was jogging off after the others, leaving John to his artificially flavoured drink and reflections on his horribly diminished flirting skills. Shit, he was getting _old_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Athletes' Park](https://www.rio2016.com/en/news/park-life-rio-2016-olympians-begin-training-at-state-of-the-art-athletes-park-alongside-village) is a dedicated training facility located just outside the Olympic Village and is six big tents fully equipped with sporting material, physiotherapy rooms, massage tables, medical posts and, the official site informs us, "canteens stocked with Brazilian fruits and isotonic drinks". [Here](https://www.instagram.com/p/BIf3bozjPmI/) you can see a photo of Team USA gymnasts using the facilities (warning: muscular menfolk). 
> 
> The airflare is a move introduced into gymnastics about 10 years ago by Morgan Hamm, who learnt it from the b-boy community. [John's studly airflares](https://www.instagram.com/p/w7LQqtL5XM/) come to you courtesy of American gymnast Sam Mikulak.
> 
> Join us tomorrow the as men's artistic qualification rounds come to you from Rio Olympic Arena!


	3. August 7th, Rio Olympic Arena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads from the Men's Artistic Gymnastics team go through their qualification day - how will they do? Tune in to our commentary team Kate Garridebs and Irene Adler, 'The Woman of Gymnastics' herself, to find out!

“Welcome back to the Rio Olympic Arena. If you’re just joining us after the late news back home in England, good evening to you. You’re here with me, Kate Garridebs, and my fellow commentator, Irene Adler, as we’re just about to head into the fifth rotation of the second subdivision here in the qualifying day for the men’s artistic gymnastics. Team GB are in action tonight in this qualifier, some positive results from the boys so far, wouldn’t you say Irene?”

“Without a doubt Kate. The men are in fine form tonight, looking strong and confident. We’ve seen the floor, pommel horse, horizontal bar and vault so far with strong results on each apparatus. Nearing the end of this subdivision, we’re looking well placed to qualify for the team finals; with Mike Stamford, John Watson and Philip Anderson all aiming for a berth in the individual all-around final. With a maximum of two athletes from each nation able to make the finals, the atmosphere will be tense down on the floor as we head into the final two rotations.” 

“Some strong results on the individual apparatus so far, too, Irene?”

“Indeed. Henry Knight, the young Yorkshireman certain to qualify for the vault final following a simply stunning turn, strong showing by both Watson and Bill Murray on the pommel horse, and Mike Stamford giving a tidy performance on the floor that should see him through to the final for that apparatus. And we go now to the rings, where Bill Murray is about to commence his routine.”

“Getting underway here with a beautiful inverted cross… moving through these strength positions, holding each for the full two seconds required… Murray of course an Olympic veteran, taking the bronze in the horizontal bar apparatus in London at the last games….”

“He is so steady on these bars, isn’t he? They really don’t call them the still rings for nothing…incredible strength!”

“Coming up to the dismount now…. A little bit of flair here and… oh! A stuck landing! He’ll be happy with that Irene.”

“He certainly will Irene, look at the expression on his face there… he knows he’s done the team proud.”

“Nice work there. We’re going to cut away to the parallel bars, where the Irishman Sebastian Moran is preparing himself for his routine now.”

“This competition wide open Kate. The gold and silver medallists from London retiring after those games, not back to contest their medals, our own John Watson coming second to this man at the world championships, let’s see how he does now… very strong beginning with this handstand sequence.”

“Quite tall for a gymnast isn’t he Irene?”

“And a one and half turn there with a small step along the bar, there’ll be small deduction for that… somersault element now, this is a very strong routine so far…. Going for the double front roll off to finish…”

“Oh-ho! Sticks the landing! Moran for Ireland there, that’ll score highly Irene?

“At least a 15.5 or a 15.6 there, very nice routine, Moran showing what he’s come for… and it’s a 15.8, excellent score, John Watson on notice with that one!”

“Back now to the rings and Philip Anderson coming up to the apparatus… I interviewed him in London you know, he seemed very confident on this apparatus and hopeful for a place in the all-around finals.”

“Mmm, a bit ambitious there if you ask me Kate. While we were looking at Moran, Mike Stamford scored a 14.3 for Team GB, respectable work… but up Anderson comes now to the apparatus. Starting off with a backwards roll through to planche position, lowers to lever and then back up to Maltese cross, so incredibly difficult…”

“And look at the expression on his face! Really showing the strain there…”

“Moving into the strength elements now with the inverted cross… you know I don’t think that was held for the required two seconds before moving into this forward roll sequence and oh! Oh he’s off!”

“Oh and what a fall… oh dear, looks a bit stunned there, really landed flat on his face…”

“What a disappointment! Well, that’s the end of his ambitions to qualify for the all-around I’d say Kate. And the expression on his face, he knows it. Is he going to continue with the routine? No, there’s his salute, and the camera following him down, he doesn’t look happy, not happy at all. John Watson coming over to the apparatus now but we’re going to cut to the floor where Karoly Baumann is taking position.” 

“Irene, any tips on what we can expect from the Hungarian?”

“I have it on good authority he’s going to attempt the Shirai this evening, the extremely difficult quadruple backwards twist named after the Japanese champion, of course.”

“Oh there it is! The Shirai! Irene, not many would have picked that tonight.”

“Well, Baumann is working with a new coach this year, and let’s just say I know what he likes.”

“You heard it here first folks, from The Woman of gymnastics herself!”

“And a lovely way to finish the fifth rotation of this session. The boys from Team GB on the parallel bars for the final rotation as they come up to the apparatus now. And Bill Murray will start… but looking at the team there, does Philip Anderson’s nose look a bit swollen to you Kate?”

“I think you might be right there Irene… that was a nasty fall from the rings he had earlier, did land in an almost flat position… here Bill Murray has a 6.2 difficulty score to start. Moving up along the horse, good swing and nice tempo….”

“Very quick routine. Opening up the legs now into the handstand preparing for the dismount… and there it is. Very clean, it’s a 14.5 for him on this final apparatus. To the rings next, Arthur Zanetti, the local favourite ….”

“Listen to this crowd! The other competitors will really struggle blocking out this noise, Henry Knight for Team GB on the parallel bars will need all his energy to block out the cheers of this delighted home crowd here, at the Olympic Arena. Zanetti of course taking home the gold in London in this event, which was also Brazil’s first gymnastics Olympic medal… can he repeat the feat at his home Olympic games?”

“Off to a wonderful start here Kate, those strength positions are certainly very impressive, holding those for three seconds there rather than two, wonderful cross position now… hardly any movement in those rings at all… and a two and a half flip to land. Very elegant routine there from this experienced competitor. His score… is a 15.533, which ought to be enough to seem him comfortably into the finals for this apparatus to defend his gold medal.”

“And speaking of experienced competitors, we cross back to the parallel bars to see John Watson’s routine. Watson of course coming second at the World Championships last year in this event to Moran who we saw score a 15.8 in the previous rotation. Here we go, John Watson now, third man from Great Britain on this apparatus….”

“Judges looking for that effortless swing, good tempo throughout the routine… looking so controlled here, really using his strength to set that controlled pace…”

“…very measured pace, quite different from some of the other competitors, Watson’s considerable upper body strength really on display here.”

“Indeed it is Kate, great strength required in this apparatus as well as accuracy, and Watson so exact in his performance… picking up the rapid pace there through these spins and the dismount, and tremendous height for the dismount. And look at his face, he’s very happy with that, little fist pump there…”

“And the score is a 15.75, just behind the Irishman Moran, marvellous job from the veteran competitor.”

“At 27, this is likely his last games, disappointed in London after a shoulder injury just weeks prior to the games, finishing with a sixth-place finish in this event after just scraping into the finals.”

“We all remember that Irene, Watson so stoically pressing his lips together as he iced up his shoulder just before the routine, looking like he was in tremendous pain but going out there and giving the performance of his life in front of the home crowd at the North Greenwich Arena. He had that shoulder reconstruction just days after the games finished.”

“He’ll be wanting a different outcome this time, and with that score he’s certainly on track for the final in this apparatus and for the individual all-around competition, too. He’ll have everyone at home watching eagerly over the next two weeks of competition.”

“And a lovely way to finish the second subdivision of this qualifying round. And the apparatus scores are coming across the screen now, should be some good news for those Team GB supporters in the crowd and watching at home of course. First up the floor, Mike Stamford there with a 15.2, will it be enough Irene?”

“I think so, still China, Ukraine and Russia to come later on this afternoon, but they’re not strong floor nations so I think Mike Stamford should book a finals place. Pommel horse now – John Watson in fourth place behind the strong scores of the American and Japanese gymnasts, and Bill Murray will also make the top eight here. Horizontal bar, no Brits here but strong performances from Team USA again and Fabian Hambuechen, the German taking out the top spot. Vault, Henry Knight right up there, Russians and Ukraine still to come, both strong vaulting nations, but Knight has done enough at his first Olympics to make the finals.”

“Scores for the rings, Zanetti, the local favourite through, certain to have two Chinese athletes qualify in the next subdivision; and now the parallel bars, Watson finishing just behind Moran at this point, although with strong competition from Russia and Ukraine in this event we may see that slip a little. So four, potentially five gymnasts in the individual apparatus finals, excellent result for the men.”

“And the all-around standings now, of course only two athletes from each nation can qualify, in this case it will be Watson and Stamford, Philip Anderson’s fall from the rings apparatus too serious to recover from in the scores. Twenty-four athletes in total will qualify; after the results from the third subdivision I’d say the Brits will be placed somewhere in the middle of the qualifying field with these scores.”

“So, Irene, a fabulous evening of gymnastics here in Rio with plenty more on the programme. If you stay with us for the third subdivision, we’ll see world-leading athletes from Russia, China and Ukraine in their qualifying rounds. Over on BBC1 there’ll be a wrap up of the action from Day 2 of the Olympics including preliminary matches in volleyball and basketball, Great Britain’s matchups with Japan and Brazil in the Rugby, and the first day of competition in the equestrian competition. And of course, on the BBC Sport website you can access up to 24 channels showing every event taking place. Tomorrow, back with the women’s artistic gymnastics qualifying rounds, sure to be exciting. But stay with us now as we start the third and final subdivision in the men’s qualifying rounds here at the Rio Olympic Arena, just a few minutes away.”

 

****off-air****

“Ugh, I need a drink. My jetlag is still killing me.”

 “Maybe if you stopped drooling over the contestants, you’d be better hydrated?”

“Contestants? What are you commentating here, The X Factor?”

“Fetch me a drink, harridan, before I bend you over this desk and have you beg for mercy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The qualification day in competition is pretty intense. On the one day (with the one routine on the apparatus), a gymnast's score will determine their team qualification (the best three per apparatus), the individual all-around, and the individual apparatus competitions. Here's a [handy 101 for the competition format](http://www.nbcolympics.com/news/gymnastics-101-competition-format%20). You might also want to refer to a guide to the [apparatus](https://usagym.org/pages/gymnastics101/men/events.html%20) used and the [scoring system](https://www.british-gymnastics.org/news-and-events/news/latest-news/6570-men-s-artistic-scoring-guide%20). Here's the real GB gymnastics team looking good after their qualification session.  
> 
> 
> The 'Shirai' Irene predicts is a real skill named after Kenzo Shirai, AKA 'Mr Twist'. [Here he is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-N6tdkVvXdQ) performing it for the first time in international competition.
> 
> Arthur Zanetti gets a brief mention in this chapter - He took home the gold in the rings event in London and silver in front of his home crowd in Rio [during the finals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1neOPN1aKAo).
> 
> TOMORROW it's the men's Artistic Gymnastics Team Finals - so we'll eavesdrop over dessert to find out how the boys finished up. Same time, same place!


	4. August 8th, Dining Room, Copacabana Palace Hotel, Rio de Janeiro

“Don’t you have your own, brand new tablet to read the news on?”

“Yes, dear, but I do find it difficult to read the news on that lovely tablet thing you’ve given us. Besides, I can never get it off your father, he’s playing scrabble with someone in Vilnius.”

“No no, it’s Tallinn. It’s simply marvellous, you put in your word and then they do it on their end and –“

“Yes, yes, dear I’m sure he can imagine. Be a dear and read it out, won’t you?”

“Well, if it really can’t wait until tomorrow…. ahem.”

_The British men’s gymnastics team of Bill Murray, John Watson, Phillip Anderson, Mike Stamford and Henry Knight just missed out on a medal in the men’s Olympic team final in Rio today. GB finished in 4th place -_

“Oh! A pity!”

“I beg your pardon? _Finished_ FOURTH _with a score of 269.752 behind Japan who took gold (274.094), Russia the silver (271.453) and China the bronze (271.122). The British boys began well on one of their weaker pieces, the rings and they continued to shine on the horizontal bars. Olympic finalist Henry Knight showed great composure to score 15.666 on the vault, followed by Watson’s strong showing on the parallel bars to put the team in a strong position moving into the final two pieces. Over on the floor GB once again put in three strong routines with Mike Stamford scoring a world class 15.400 to keep the team in the hunt for a medal._

_Finishing on what is known as their strongest apparatus, the pommel horse, GB needed to go for broke to make the podium. Henry Knight got the team off to a good start showing great self-possession at such a young age. World silver medallist John Watson was up next and went for his most difficult routine to give the team the best chance to medal but unfortunately, on one of his most difficult elements, he had to count a fall. Such –_

“A fall! Oh no, poor John!”

“He is one of your favourites isn’t he dear?  You were always partial to blonds."

“God, I shall go quite off this pudding. If you’re quite finished?” _Such a high level routine still scored him a 14.766 and Bill Murray finished up with a world class routine scoring 15.991 but sadly it was not enough for a medal._

_Mike Stamford said: “We gave it everything we had but sadly we came up just short today. It’s important that we reflect in our performance and realise that we did everything we could to be in this position and try to go out there and win a medal.”_

_Henry Knight said: “It was an incredible final and there was_ _some incredible gymnastics but it wasn’t our day today. We went out there and gave it our all and I think we can be proud of that. We’ve got individual finals now and we’re positive. I’m loving every second of my first Olympics and really happy and proud to be representing my country on the biggest stage of them all. I put out some great routines today, particularly the vault, so I’m looking forward to the individual final._

_“The Japanese at the minute are the complete next level and we’re always striving to be up there. We’ve certainly improved our difficulty since last year’s World Championships and with the last piece on pommel we had to go full out and go for the full difficulty but it just didn’t come off today.”_

_Competition continues tomorrow at the Rio Arena with the women’s artistic gymnastics team final, where the British women have qualified in fourth position._

“Ooh, we shall have to watch that on the TV tomorrow evening. Simone Biles is tipped to just wipe the floor with everyone, I heard. The American, you know.”

“Yes, Mummy. I had heard.”

“We’re not all so well connected as you, dear. Done with your pudding yet? You are a slowpoke aren’t you? Best get a move on, big day tomorrow, must be early – your Daddy’s _so_ been looking forward to seeing that Frenchman, Victor Trevor, in action, quite raving about him really, pity none of the British fencers are up to scratch this time. Oh do wait, dear, no need to go stomping off in a huff, not a personal jibe at you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Belmond Copacabana](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/south-america/brazil/rio-de-janeiro/hotels/belmond-copacabana-palace-hotel/#) is an extremely swish hotel, if you'd not already assumed. This conversation takes place in this rather special dining space:  
> 
> 
> TOMORROW take a relaxing break from S4 Trailer Screaming with a sojourn to the Olympic Village, where we join Sherlock & John poolside.


	5. August 9th, Olympic Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We join Sherlock & John poolside at the Olympic Village.

Sherlock strode through the village, keen to get back to his room quickly. The sky looked like it was going to cloud over again, although the whipping winds of the morning had died down. His laptop should be done charging by now, meaning Sherlock could get back to his research. That is if Hudders hadn’t a) noticed he’d swiped it back; and b) managed to find it where Sherlock had hidden it up in the ceiling, having pried open a promising looking ceiling tile. He reflected with momentary smugness on this hiding spot, but only fools were complacent. The old woman was both wily and determined. She was continually acting on her threats to convince Sherlock to ‘enjoy the atmosphere,’ conniving ways to snap pictures of Sherlock each day and text them to his parents like some strange sports-themed proof of life in a hostage situation. The metaphor being entirely apt; really; vis-à-vis:

  1. Sherlock was trapped in a defined geographic location, forbidden to exit its confines without accompaniment;
  2. Sherlock was forced to consume meals on a regular basis;
  3. His captors wanted to deceive his (nominally) loved ones as to his welfare – “look happy, Sherlock, for goodness’ sakes, it’s just a photo, SMILE”;
  4. Everyone around him seemed to have succumbed to a variant of Stockholm Syndrome where they thought these circumstances were special and exciting; the most mundane things of life elevated to the status of the remarkable merely by being present. Evidence: queues for free McDonald’s. Throngs of people queuing for what? Enough horrid nuggets to fill a canoe? The revolting things the Americans insisted on referring to as ‘fries,’ like that was a foodstuff instead of a verb? Where there any proper _chips_ in this godforsaken place? Honest, proper _chips_ with _salt_ and vinegar and wrapped in newspaper with holes punched in to let the steam out and –



_Bang_. He bounced into someone, now looking up at him from where his face had bumped into Sherlock’s chest. He was wearing an oddly expectant expression (Fair skin already pinkening even in overcast sunlight, would be freckling before the week was out; drinking: tea; British, then; muscular but lean, one of those sports with a ball?  But didn’t you need to be tall and this person was short? More data required). The round face seemed familiar…. Mick? Mark? Mike?

Matt (?) held him lightly by the elbow and pivoted him 180 degrees, without any apparent effort at all. “Off in a world of your own mate. Here, John wants you.”  With the kind of smile that was obviously meant to be helpful, he pointed out over the surface of the water to where a blond head was bobbing, arm just dropping down to the surface of the water now he was sure Sherlock had seen him.

Now he was swimming towards him, arms breaking smoothly through the water. Sherlock watched, paralysed half by alarm and half by anatomy _(Trapezius. Deltoid. Bicep. Tricep. Latissimus dorsi)_. _Goodness_ , Sherlock thought, _the muscle definition is quite….defined_. John had reached the pool ledge now. “Sherlock! Are you coming in?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened involuntarily and a small ‘unnggh’ fell out. “Ah, what? No, this is – was - just the shortest way back from the training hall to my room…”

But John was moving again, pushing up off his hands and out of the water, rivulets of water streaming from his chest. _Pectoralis Major. Serratus Anterior (tattooed_ _). Rectus abdominus (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight). External oblique. Inguinal ligament_ …

Sherlock’s eyes jerked back up to rest on John’s smiling face, grinning at Sherlock as he ran a hand through his wet hair, eyes impossibly blue and improbably bright, sparkling in the shimmering reflection from the surface of the water.

“Oh, really? The water’s quite warm, it’s nice. Colder out than in, actually.”

“Yes, I see.” Observations: John’s skin, gooseflesh spreading over like ripples in a pond; John’s nipples, dusky pink circles contracting to tight pebbles, quite hard-looking…

Overriding his traitorously anatomy-addled brain, Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to John’s mouth, now quirking up in a lopsided grin. “So, umm, did you want to grab a drink?”

“I beg your pardon?”

John’s grin faltered a little. “A drink?” He gestured to the small poolside bar. “There’s no alcohol here, of course, but there’s a vending machine, they have powerade, or tea, or coffee? Or snack? They have muffins, or fruit or… something?”

Sherlock latched on to the most familiar thing in that stream of words. “Tea?”

John’s grin returned full force. “Great! Just let me grab my things, yeah?” John padded off, veering around athletes and furniture, water still beading on his back _(Trapezius, Deltoid, Rhomboid, Latissimus Dorsi, Gluteus Maximus….)._ Tearing his eyes up again, he spied two vivid green beanbags and immediately flopped himself in, swivelling his bottom from side to side and prodding at the sides with long fingers in an attempt to mould the seat to the most comfortable position. He was still engaged in this engrossing endeavour when John returned, distracting musculature now covered in a deep blue hoodie and a grey towel wrapped snuggly around narrow hips. “Back in a tic,” he said, depositing a bundle of gear at his feet and disappearing once again, towel swishing round his calves ( _Muscle: Gastrocnemius_ ).

Sherlock was still squirming on the beanbag when John returned, balancing a teacup and saucer in each hand. Extending his hand for the proffered saucer, the beanbag suddenly shifted and tipped, leaving his legs uselessly engulfed in the beanbag’s mass, hip only shielded from the ground by whatever fabric this infernal furniture was made out of, one arm thrown up over his head and the other was all that separated his face from the wet concrete. He blinked.  “Ah, John, some assistance may be required…”

A roughened hand grasped his own where it flailed above his head, and another clasped round his elbow. With a quick jerk, Sherlock was freed from the cushion’s hateful hold. “Diabolical object!” Sherlock sniffed, poking it with his toe.

John let out a breathy, high pitched giggle. “There’s, ah, proper chairs over there,” he nodded towards an unoccupied cocktail table. “Can you grab my shoes?  I’ll take the tea.”

Attempting to regroup his dignity, Sherlock strode towards the table, trying to look as stately as possible with an armful of trainers and duffel bags. Dumping everything in a pile, he perched on the edge of one of the bar stools and observed John carefully making his way towards him, teacups rattling a touch on their saucers, mouth pursed with concentration. Reaching the table, he placed the beverages down, looking inordinately pleased with himself at managing to deliver them safely. “I assumed milk?” Sherlock nodded – “Sugar?”  With the air of a magician, John reached into the left pocket of his hoodie and extracted some sugar sticks, placing them on the table. “But wait!” he said “there’s more!”, proudly producing a silver teaspoon. Sherlock grabbed at the sugar and spoon. “But wait!” John cried again, “There’s _STILL_ more!” before reaching again into his pocket and pulling out some cereal bars, pushing one towards Sherlock.

“What is this?” Sherlock inquired, holding up the brightly wrapped package. “Cereal bar,” was the response.

“Enlightening, John. I’m merely uncertain why it merited that level of excitement.”

“Oh. So no post-Olympics infomercial career for me then? Back to the drawing board, I suppose.”

Baffling. John, blowing across the surface of his tea, seemed unruffled. Perhaps a change in questioning tactics.

“But why have you brought me one?”

“You just finished training yeah? So you need to eat.”

“I rarely eat.” John stared. “My coach is constantly trying to feed me, but I….”

“Oblige me,” John said, making clear there would be no discussion.

Sherlock sipped at the tea.

“So, uh, how was your training this morning? Feeling confident?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was fine. The routines are fine. All comes down to execution on the day, really. As you know.”

John’s teacup rattled as it reunited with its saucer; a quick flare of the nostrils. Annoyance. Reason: unclear.

“Yeah, well, you know how it goes. You’ve got another week before your qualifier, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied simply.

“And can you get enough training time? You didn’t look happy to share the other day.”

“The team events are today and tomorrow, so there’ll be less competition for space as a consequence.”

“Yeah, right. I was thinking of going in tomorrow afternoon, watching the team qualifiers. Showing support for the Brits, you know.”

“Laughable. You must know they’ll not qualify and not get close to a medal. Perhaps if everyone from the Russian and Bulgarian teams accidentally injures themselves or each other with the apparatus –”

“Jeez, Sherlock! That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“Simple statistics, John. My scoring prediction model forecasts scores within a range of 0.185 of a point. The degree of exactitude is only dependent on the –”

“0.185 of a point is quite a lot in Gymnastics,” said John. His eyes shone over the rim of the teacup.

Sherlock sipped at the tea.

“Yes, well. Not everything is perfect. But I’ve seen their routine; and neither are they.”

There was that giggle again. “Yeah, well maybe don’t tell them they haven’t got a statistical chance. Take it from a friend.”

Sherlock coughed on a mouthful of tea.

“Besides,” John continued “a bit of friendly cheering and flag-waving could make all the difference. At least 0.185 of a points’ worth, I’d think. Perhaps as much as 0.2 of a point, even.”

Puzzling. John tore off a hunk of the cereal bar with his teeth and chewed _(Orbicularis oris. Masseter.)_ , somehow still contriving to have an expectant expression as he looked at Sherlock. Was this an attempt at humour?   Perhaps furthering the status of ‘friends’ posited earlier?  Factual approach. “I was also planning to attend the event. More data will improve the precision of my model.” Best be clear. “For Science.”

John raised his left eyebrow _(Orbicularis oculi)_. “Well then, it sounds like a date. Are you getting the bus over in the morning?”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide as he replays John’s query in his head. “John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any...”

John smiles awkwardly, swallowing a mouthful of half-chewed cereal bar.

“Well, yeah, we all take sport seriously. Although personally I’d like to find someone that didn’t leave me quite so sore after, if you know what I mean…” Sherlock’s eyes look like they are boring open John’s skull, overall expression consistent with having found only small balls of fluff as a reward for the effort. “It’s just an expression mate. I wasn’t asking. Maybe I’ll just see you there, yeah?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

Sherlock swallows the rest of the tea, eyes unfocusing as he contemplated the glittering surface of the pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Olympic Village is indeed equipped with a pool and poolside bar. It looks like this:  
> .   
> Here's a [short video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-smxlOBiUFg) I found obviously shot by one of the athletes (not sure of the original source) that shows the pool, and some athletes doing yoga. If Sherlock and John had been there at the time, I don't think much conversation would have been had. Don't say I didn't warn you. 
> 
> Speaking of warnings, those gymnasts are indeed, pretty damn muscular. Earlier this year US gymnast Sam Mikulak, lamenting the lack of interest in men's gymnastics compared to the women's sport, posited that they should compete shirtless so people could see the muscles and thus perhaps make the sport more popular. [Check out these photos](http://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/celebs/news/a62464/team-usa-mens-gymnastics-shirtless/) and let me know if you think he's on to something (warning for gratuitous male objectification). 
> 
> It seems to be quite common for [Olympic Athletes to get a tattoo](http://www.ibtimes.com/olympic-ring-tattoo-tradition-explained-how-it-started-why-ink-caught-2399343) commemorating their achievement. [Here's a few](http://www.elle.com/culture/news/g28639/athletes-with-olympic-tattoos/%22). Here's John's:  
> . 
> 
> **TOMORROW** Sherlock  & John attend the qualification of the women's group Rhythmic Gymnastics competition, and Sherlock meets someone from the past.


	6. August 10th, Rio Olympic Arena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over an afternoon's spectating, Sherlock shares some details of his past and refines his score prediction model. Then the past makes a personal appearance.

The Team GB contingent was out in good force, at least. A host of coaches and support staff and athletes from other sports, easily identifiable in their team kit, plus assorted people he assumed were parents and friends of the British team members. Union Jack flags hung down over the tier barrier, occasionally floating up if there was a gust from the air conditioning system. John clutched the corner of one flag himself, absently clenching his fist around the fabric. Next to him, Mike leaned forward, face eager, periodically waving his corner of the flag if something particularly exciting happened down on the floor.

And really, rhythmic gymnastics _was_ exciting, especially like this in a group - five women in spangly outfits, bending themselves in half before gracefully expanding into some flying leap, long ribbons twirling madly. So why did John’s gaze keep sliding off the floor and out into the crowd?  Why ignore the obvious talent below in order to search for a head of dark curls?  _Best not to examine the answer to that question too closely, Watson_.

There was a round of polite applause at the conclusion of the routine. Anderson angled over, Mike having to move to avoid getting a face full of Anderson’s horrible blue, white and red novelty wig. “Ooh, how do you reckon they did? I liked that bit in the middle where they all tangled themselves up! Amazing!”

“Not sure it was meant to happen like that, actually,” said Mike mildly. John bit his tongue to keep the smirk from his face. “Oh yeah, look, they haven’t done so well,” continued Mike, gesturing to the scoreboard revealing the unfortunate team had scored 5th out of the 5 teams so far, briefly meeting John’s eyes. Fortunately, John was saved from having to respond by the entry of the Japanese team on to the floor. _Right, focus this time_.

“Seems a bit quiet, doesn’t it?  Thought they’d be a bit flashier,” remarked Mike to his right at the end of the routine. “Think all those ribbon drops are more of a worry though,” replied John, flexing the expertise gained from a half-hour’s spectating.

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper,” rumbled a deep baritone, as a long collection of limbs folded itself into the vacant chair at John’s side. “Sherlock!” John smiled, unable to keep the grin from his face. “So go on then, give us a score prediction.”

Steepling his long fingers under his chin, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered closed. “16.316.”

“16.316! Look, Sherlock, you got it exactly!” John huffed out a surprised breath. “That was amazing!”

“You think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock mused, eyes following the leaping Belarussian team out on the floor.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off,” replied Sherlock succinctly.

“Still raining outside, then?” asked John as Sherlock rubbed out droplets of water from his curls.

“Brilliant deduction. What gave it away?” was Sherlock’s acerbic response.

John turned his face towards the gymnastics, smiling broadly. It was easier to maintain focus on the sport now, and even give an appreciative ‘oooh’ after a particularly impressive synchronized ribbon foot-throwing. Foot toss? Whatever.

John turned to look at Sherlock expectantly. “Can I assist you?” was the cool response.

“Don’t give me that. You know you want to show off.”

Sherlock looked momentarily conflicted, clasping his hands in his lap. “17.287,” he said primly.

“Let’s see… oh! 17.283!” John looked back to Sherlock, who looked smug.

“Hard to see everything from this elevated position, of course. Explains some of the uncertainty in the model,” said Sherlock loftily.

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” nodded John, a picture of seriousness.

“Oooh, look, here come the Brits! C’mon!” Jumping to his feet, John waved his corner of the flag, he and Mike and energetic but not particularly coordinated duo. “Woo!! Britain!!” John hollered, poking Sherlock’s leg with his toes. “Get up!”

Sherlock stood, looking somewhat perplexed, as the announcer began reading out the team’s names. “Anthea Akram… Sally Donovan…”

“DONOVAN!!” screeched Anderson from down the row. Really, thought John with a sidelong glance at Mike, something ought to be done.  

“Molly Hooper….”

“HOOPERRRR!!!” hollered Mike and John together.

“Mary Morstan…”

“MORSTAAAAAN!!!!” they waved the flag above their heads.

“and Sarah Sawyer…”

“SAWY-YEEERRRRRRRRR!!!!!” they bellowed, stamping their feet and flag waving with abandon.

“Excellent teamwork lads, really well done, very nice…” said Mike as they sat down again, Anderson looking delightfully miffed.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was resuming his seat looking more perplexed than ever. “What, don’t people cheer at your events?”

“Nothing like that, certainly….” muttered Sherlock.

“Well, maybe that’s just something we do better in the artistic world,” replied John.

Sherlock opened his mouth, frowning. “Shhh, they’re starting” said John, enjoying the grimace on Sherlock’s face and turning to focus his attention to the floor, where Team GB had assumed their starting position.

Very quickly John could tell there wasn’t going to be an upset to Sherlock’s statistical model today. The ladies were clearly working hard, but it just wasn’t as smooth as the other teams – there were a few moments that, if not quite a fumble, were next door to it. _Quite a few_ , winced John. Still, they’d avoided any major disasters. John and the other GB supporters stood and cheered the team off the floor at the conclusion of their routine.

“We weren’t loud enough for that 0.22 of a point, where we?” said John, turning to Sherlock with a mournful air.

Sherlock gave a quick little snort of laughter, surprise flashing across his face before he schooled his features into a more serious expression. “No, no I’m afraid not John. So sad.”

John guffawed “I can see you’re really broken up about it.”

A quick little pull up of Sherlock’s lip; just the start of a smile. “15.8,” he said by way of reply.

“Oooh…” John craned his neck to see the big screen, “15.8 it is! Fantastic!”

“Do you know that you do that out loud?” enquired Sherlock.

John fought to keep his face from flushing. “Sorry, I’ll stop.”

“No,” said Sherlock quietly, “it’s… fine.”

John looked out to the crowd again, trying to hide his smile. “So, uh…how did you get started in this sport anyway?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was dancing in a ballet company in France until a few years ago, but I left. Was at a bit of a loose end and then my brother heard that FIG was going to incorporate male rhythmic gymnastics at the next Olympics, and my brother… strongly suggested I look into it. He knew of a British coach that had had to leave Russia rather suddenly after the London Olympics. Met up with Hudders, started training, and, well, here we are,” said Sherlock, indicating the arena with a flutter of his hand.

“You took up this sport less than _four years ago_ and now you’re in the _Olympics_?” said John incredulously.

Sherlock looked a little affronted. “That’s what I said”.

“I’m sorry, that’s just…mind-blowing. Incredible. Most of us on the team have been doing gym since we were _kids_ …. And you were dancing professionally before that?”

“Mmm... the Ballet National de Marseille,” replied Sherlock absently. “I’m older than I look, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

John flushed again. That had been exactly what he was thinking. “How old are you, then?”

Sherlock turned to look at John. Blond tousled hair, tanned skin. He found his attention pinned by the pink tongue that darted out at the corner of John’s mouth. “Twenty-three,” he murmured.

“I see.” John looked the man up and down, noting with quiet glee that Sherlock seemed to have an answering flush. “Incredible” he said again softly, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. With a series of rapid blinks, Sherlock broke the eye contact and looked out towards the floor.

 “So, did you say your coach used to train the Russian teams?  They’ve just qualified second,” said John, steering into more neutral territory. He leant closer to Sherlock to hear his answer over the enthusiastic applause for the final routine in this rotation.

“Obvious, John,” replied Sherlock curtly. “They dominate this sport”.

“Is that for your event as well?” John asked, leaning over as other spectators began to get up around them, making a quick dash for the loos or drinks. “Are they your main medal competition?” As the words left his mouth, he reflected that could be quite an insensitive question. He didn’t even know if Sherlock thought he had a chance for a podium place; but somehow it seemed like Sherlock didn’t do something without intending to do it well.

“Them and the Japanese,” Sherlock said. “They’ll certainly give your team a run for your money, too.”

John smiled. “It’s your team too, remember?”

Sherlock’s lip curled. “I compete in an individual event, John. Seeing as how your ‘cheering’ experiment has failed to make a noticeable improvement in your team’s scores, I fail to see the benefit of belonging to a ‘team,’.”

“Well, the uniforms are pretty snazzy, don’t you think?” asked John calmly, shaking out the sleeves of the jacket decorated with the enormous red ‘B’ and equally mammoth blue ‘G’. Sherlock looked at John as if he’d accessorised his uniform by growing a second head. “Perhaps that’s the difference between you and me,” John continued with a smirk. “I make this look _good_.”

Sherlock gaped. John began to giggle. Sherlock’s face was a study in slowly-dawning outrage. John crossed his legs and elaborately studied his nails, still laughing as he heard Sherlock draw an indignant breath next to him. “I’ll have you know that I-”

“Aha, Sherlock. Ça fait un bail, oui?”

John would never hear Sherlock’s undoubtedly eviscerating response. Sherlock was slowly standing, drawing himself to his full height. Unfortunately, this also totally blocked John’s view of the interloper.

“Victor. Indeed it has,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

 “I thought it was you. I saw you up on the big screen,” said the disembodied accent. “I have to say, to see you cheering for a sport? It was unexpected.” Victor’s voice sounded teasing, knowing; intimate. John rose to his feet, stood beside Sherlock in the narrow aisle and extended a hand “Hi, hi, John Watson. Victor, was it?”

Victor seemed slightly taken aback but took the offered hand. “Victor Trevor.  Team France,” he said, before turning immediately back to Sherlock. “How are you?  You look…good, Sherlock.”

 _So do you_ , thought John with an uneasiness he immediately tried to quash.  Victor was tall; taller even than Sherlock. His dark skin seemed to gleam against the immaculate white of his uniform. In his tailored pants and form-fitting polo, he looked like he’d stepped right out of a magazine and into John’s conversation, which had been going very well thank you very much. _Shit._

“… made the team, then,” Sherlock was responding.

Victor shrugged modestly. “I trained hard. The last few years have been…quiet.”

 “So what sport do you play, Victor?” John interjected, balancing one knee on the adjoining seat as he tried to avoid both falling over and squashing Sherlock against the railing.

“I fence,” replied Victor, looking down at John.

“Really, fencing, ok!” said John, hoping through some dark magic that he didn’t sound as inane as he felt. “I don’t know much about that, except you do it with swords,” he continued, giving his most winning smile.

“Ye-es,” replied Victor, looking at Sherlock as if he expected him to remark on John’s perfect grasp of the obvious. Sherlock, however, made no response.

“So, uh, have you had your events yet?” John pressed on.

“I have had the, uh, individual events already. The team event is still to come, of course,” replied Victor.

“Of course,” John echoed. “How did you go in the individual events, then?” He felt, rather than saw, Sherlock’s head turn back towards Victor and focus on him.

“I came fourth,” said Victor, a scowl contorting his face.

“Ooh _, rotten_ luck, Victor,” said Sherlock, sounding incredibly upper-class and irritating. For some unknowable reason, John was heartened.

“Mmm,” John made a vaguely sympathetic sound. “That’s rough.”

“And you are?...” asked, addressing John for the first time.

“Oh, this is John Watson, my friend.”

“Friend?” Victor repeated in some surprise.

“Teammate,” explained John.

“Right,” said Victor. “And your sport, John?”

“Gymnastics,” supplied John. “Artistic,” he clarified after a beat.

“Yes, I had thought so,” replied Victor with a smile.

“We’re not all short-arses, you know,” said John at the undignified snort Sherlock gave.

“John, what an _awful_ lie,” Sherlock said, the twitch of a smile on his face as he looked down at John.

John felt an answering grin. “So, how do you two know each other?”

Sherlock seemed to stiffen slightly and looked out over the crowd, obviously going to make no response.

“Sherlock used to dance with my sister,” said Victor.

“Oh!” said John. “Was that at the Ballet National de Marseille?” asked John, going for a casual tone. “Sherlock’s told me about his time there”. Victor looked stunned. _Touche!_ thought John. _No need for you to know it was just five minutes ago._

John fancied he could feel Sherlock’s gaze upon him again. “How is Valérie?” asked Sherlock finally, breaking what was threatening to become an awkward pause.

“She’s well, Sherlock, well. She’s one of the first soloists now,” said Victor, his voice warming again.

Sherlock smiled; a slow crinkle of his face that seemed soft and genuine. “Bonne nouvelle, Victor. The very best.”

“I shall tell her you send your felicitations, Sherlock,” said Victor, although he seemed uncertain, questioning.

“Yes, yes of course,” said Sherlock after a small pause. “And good luck to you, Victor, for your next event,” he finished, with the air of someone having recalled a difficult word in a foreign language.

With a fleeting smile, Victor leaned in closer. “Il est le dimanche, Sherlock. Viendras-tu?”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and rocked onto his toes, moving infinitesimally into Victor’s personal space. “Perhaps, Victor.” John shuffled his knee on the chair awkwardly.

“Ah, sorry you blokes, nothing from the drink stand for you, the queues were crap. ‘Scuse,” finished Mike as they shuffled out of the way.

“Bien. I must go back to my seat. Perhaps I shall see you both about the Village? Good luck, anyway!” finished Victor in a rush as Mike jostled past him to resume his seat.

Victor stayed only long enough to see Sherlock’s acknowledging nod before turning and making his way back up the steps, two at a time. “Good luck on Sunday, Victor!” called John with phony cheer to Victor’s retreating back.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow again at John. “What?” said John testily as he took his seat. “I have an education.”

“Manifestement,” retorted Sherlock.

The mood was gone after that. John sat low in his seat, arms and legs crossed as he attempted to focus on the second and final rotation. Each time he turned to Sherlock at the conclusion of a routine, the taller man was perfectly still, fingers steepled under his chin, only his eyes moving as they followed the darting movements of the gymnasts and their apparatus. Each passing routine only increased John’s sour mood when Sherlock refused to meet his eyes at the end of it, capped when Sherlock stood at the conclusion of the fourth routine and abruptly left the arena, not looking back to where John stared open-mouthed after him. Not even Mike and Anderson’s terrible dancing along to Ukraine’s routine to ‘Vogue’ could cheer him then.

And Great Britain didn’t even qualify.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhythmic gymnastics: we all love it. I can't find much official footage of the 2016 games online yet so, I refer you [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeAwnUeey3s&index=8&list=PL288DD8FE1B4DEC6F) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_evyM7Xnl_o&index=9&list=PL288DD8FE1B4DEC6F) for footage of the 2015 World championships if you want to check out some top-tier group Rhythmic gymnastics action. This also marks the point in the story where I ask you to take a break from reality (reality is filled with scary trailers, so why wouldn't you want to?) and imagine with me that male rhythmic gymnastics is an Olympic sport. It is indeed an actual thing (which I will share more details of in future chapter notes) but not, sadly, an Olympic thing. However, I hope that won't impede anyone's enjoyment of the story, in which it is treated seriously. PS: The Ukrainan team really did [Vogue at the Olympics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gUv4Ed_AZE). Women after my own heart.
> 
> We've already looked at the Opening Ceremony uniforms but there are different uniforms for just hanging about the Village and so forth. In the case of Team GB, these were also designed by Stella McCartney. Here's a [nice set of pictures](http://www.standard.co.uk/sport/other-sports/rio-2016-team-gb-athletes-pose-in-their-olympic-games-kit-a3298521.html#gallery) of athletes with all their kit which gives me warm Olympic feels. The jumper which John is described wearing is this one.  
> 
> 
> VICTOR. Here he is posing for us. No, I tell a lie, it's actually Team USA fencer Daryl Homer, who won the silver medal in the men's sabre competition. But also Victor.  
>   
> Now imagine him in the [Team France uniform](https://www.instagram.com/p/BEtpKrKKnDP/), and I think you can see why John feels ~~wildly jealous~~ feelings.  
>  Ça fait un bail = it’s been a while  
> Manifestement = so it seems  
> bonne nouvelle = goodnews  
> “Il est le dimanche, Sherlock. Viendras-tu?” = it’s on Sunday. Will you come?
> 
> You may have also noticed that the chapter count went up. This is because I can't count, it seems. But: more sports!
> 
>  **TOMORROW:** Sherlock gets confronted by some facts about Village life, and an Important Plot Development occurs.


	7. August 11th, Olympic Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes face to face with one of the more well-known aspects of Olympic Village life.

Sherlock stood outside the door. This was clearly his room. The wear pattern on the 180-270 degree arc of the doorknob was indisputable, despite its recent installation. There could be no mistake. A raucous shout of laughter preceded a group of fellow village occupants making their way up Sherlock’s hallway, forcing him back against the opposite wall. Sherlock inclined his head, observing the door knob once more as the noise from the unformed rabble faded. Incontrovertible. Setting his shoulders, he knocked.

“Open,” came the call from inside.

“I could be anyone, you know,” Sherlock admonished, stepping inside the small room’s threshold.

“But you’re not, are you,” said John. Sherlock looked at John, lain out on the room’s small sofa, rain streaming down on the glass windows behind him. One hand under his head, grey t-shirt pulled tight over the bicep. This same shirt rode up a little at John’s hips, the sliver of warm golden skin exposed there seeming to glow in the room’s dim light. And at the end of the couch, John’s small feet, crossed at the ankles; callouses on the soles white with the chalk of a thousand practices. Sherlock felt a peculiar urge to touch; would they feel dry? Or would they be soft and warm? Would John allow him to take the posterior tibial artery pulse below the medial malleolus of the ankle?

He must have made an interrogative noise, because “You’re not just anyone, are you, Sherlock Holmes,” came from John.

Sherlock straightened infinitesimally, eyeing John from where he’d risen to a sitting position, elbows on knees, one hand scrubbing through his hair.

“You’ve been on my mind all day, it seems,” he continued. The room seemed to contract to where John sat calmly on the sofa, looking up at him from under long lashes. His mind seemed to fuzz, flicker. _What an outlandishly ordinary tone to use to say such an extraordinary thing._

“John, I… I need to use your phone,” declared Sherlock.

“My phone?” John repeated, staring at Sherlock’s imperious hand gesture.

“Yes, your phone, yes, there’s a chance my number may be recognized, do keep up.”.  

John tossed the phone in his hand, up and down, up and down, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. The scratches in the silver finish of the phone caught the light in jagged flashes. With a small, private smile, John rose, crossing the small room and handing the phone to Sherlock wordlessly.

Sherlock bent his head and attended to his business, fingers flying over the phone’s screen in a prepared sequence. Looking up, John was close, leaning against the room’s high countertop, arms and ankles crossed, looking directly at Sherlock. Shockingly close.

Fixing his gaze on John, Sherlock placed the phone on the counter and with a flick of his long fingers, sent it skidding along the countertop back to its owner. Unfortunately, he must have miscalculated the angle _(perhaps the scratches altered the trajectory?)_ , because the phone, travelling at some speed, struck the bottom of a stiff plastic bag, crumpling the base and sending its contents spilling out in a stream of metallic green to puddle at Sherlock’s feet.

“Ah,” said John, staring at the whispering pile as it spread across the floor. “Ah.”  

Horrifically, Sherlock could feel his face begin to flush. “What are the big ones?” he said, hating the quaver in his voice.

“Dental dams,” replied John, as if from very far away.

It was out of the question not to know. “Why have you got supplies for dental procedures in your room?” Sherlock asked, gingerly toeing the pile.

John made a strangled sound. “You can, ah, you use them for oral sex.”

“You put them over the, ah, vulva?” John continued after a pause. “Or the….”

“Oh, oh, oh,” said Sherlock, tripping back, a gentle sound accompanying the cascade of condoms. _A purr of prophylactics_. _A rumble of rubbers. A susurrus of sheaths_ , continued his brain, descending into hysteria.

His jaw worked. “Not my area,” he eventually got out, hoping it didn’t sound as if he was being asphyxiated.

John made an affirmative noise. “It’s fine” he said, clearly aiming to strike a genial, reassuring tone. “Bill’s collecting them, fills his pockets from the vending machine downstairs every time he goes past. For the folks at home, he says.”

Sherlock finally looked up at John, utterly confounded. _“What?”_ he managed to stutter out.

“You know,” said John, lips twitching. “My mate went to Rio, and all I got was this lousy condom?”

Sherlock stared. John began to giggle, back against the wall, hands clutched over his chest as he laughed. Sherlock slumped against the counter, unable to fight the answering snigger that turned into a chuckle, a laugh, a guffaw. It was as if something broke loose in his chest as looked at John, laughed with him.

John wiped his mouth with his hand, striving for composure. “So, ah, um,” he started, pressing his lips together to hold back his laughter; “dinner?”

Sherlock was saved the necessity of answering by the door opening and one of John’s teammates falling through the door, looking as if he was in danger of having his face sucked off by an immensely tall blonde woman. Implausibly tall, in fact.

“Jesus, Bill!” exclaimed John.

Bill extracted his face from the two-handed hold of his lady companion. “Bloody hell, John! Sock on the door if you’ve got someone!” The ludicrously tall woman stood up, scant inches from the ceiling, noticing that there were other people in the room for the first time. “Hello,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Nataliya.”

“No sock, no room. Now piss off!” said Bill, slightly smothered in Nataliya’s eager embrace. “And what are you doing with all my rubbers?”

Sherlock looked down to where his hand had suddenly, unexpectedly, been clasped in John’s. “Christ, Sherlock, let’s go,” he was saying, dragging Sherlock from the room. _Oh, his skin_ is _warm_ , Sherlock thought. _Mustn’t trip over any of these condoms, though_.

John shut the door behind them with a bang, dropping Sherlock’s hand. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly.

“Still just souvenirs?” Sherlock sneered.

“Well, not all of them will make it back to Blighty, no,” said John, hand scrubbing through his hair again. “I wish I’d been roomed with Mike, he’s got this ‘Master of his own Domain’ thing going until his competition is over, you know? But then Henry would have been with Bill and my God, he’s just too young for that. I mean I know he’s 19 but he just seems about 14, you know? It would have been corruption of a minor, or something….”

“John, shut up.”

“What? Sorry, yes, I guess I was babbling for a minute there….”

“One minute and twenty-three seconds, to be exact.” One minute and twenty-three seconds of utterly incomprehensible drivel concerning people Sherlock cared nothing about.

John huffed a laugh and smiled up at Sherlock. “So….dinner?”

“John, John!!!” Another of John’s infernal teammates was barrelling up the hall.

 “Jesus, Mike, are you all right?” John exclaimed, leaving Sherlock’s side to grip his friend’s arms.

“It’s not me, John, it’s Sarah.”

“Sarah?”

“Sarah,” gulped Mike, looking at Sherlock without seeing. “She’s been attacked”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The athlete's rooms in the Olympic Village](http://www.sportingnews.com/other-sports/news/rio-olympics-2016-olympic-village-conditions-australian-athletes-games-not-ready/1xdw0c0og5cuu19w27wzky0pbb) are pretty spartan. I've stayed in fancier backpacker joints. 
> 
> OK so one of the classic stories of the Olympics is that they are there for SPORTS but also [SHAGGING](https://www.bustle.com/articles/177035-heres-what-we-know-about-sex-in-the-olympic-village). This year the kind folks at the Rio organising committee provided [lots of safe-sex supplies](http://www.forbes.com/sites/brucelee/2016/08/03/in-the-rio-olympics-42-condoms-per-athlete/#42d7a9ad34fb%20) for our favorite sportspeople, like 40+ per athlete. That's enough to take some home for a souvenir. They were indeed dispensed in vending machines and also by [these guys](http://metro.co.uk/2016/08/13/a-moment-of-appreciation-for-the-guys-handing-out-condoms-at-the-olympics-6065345/). Celebrate with a condom, indeed.  
> 
> 
>  **TOMORROW** Get your readin' shoes ready: in our longest chapter yet, John competes in the men's Individual all-around final.


	8. August 12th, Rio Olympic Arena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John competes for his podium finish in the men's Individual All-Around competition. After the competition, the team visits Sarah to see how she's faring after the attack.

“Hello viewers and welcome back to the Rio Olympic Arena, where the men take centre stage here for the third time. You’re here with me, Kate Garridebs and my co-commentator, Irene Adler. Twenty-four of the world’s best, aiming to become Olympic all-around champion. Athletes from Ukraine, Japan and Russia are the top three qualifiers, but sixteen nations are represented in this contest, this gladiatorial tournament of skill and discipline. These are the iron men of gymnastics, they must perform on each apparatus, six events for each, it will be an electrifying day’s competition in front of a great crowd here. Irene, this field of sportsmen is incredibly impressive. We are in for a thrilling day of gymnastics.”

…

John rocked up on the balls of his feet, bounced to the count of three, arms balanced in front, his hands just short of touching the wall. Exhale. Rocked back, breath in, rock up; bounce, bounce, bounce. Exhale. Rock down. Inhale, rock up; bounce, bounce, bounce.

Mike’s face made its way into John’s vision, next to him, just inside his personal space. John gave three little jumps. “You right, mate?” said Mike softly, just above a whisper. John gestured down to the floor with a quick nod of the head.   Mike took up position opposite him, legs spread wide. As John reached over his right foot, Mike continued, “I know you and Sarah used to…ah.”

John stretched to his left foot, Mike going to his right. “All in the past, yeah?” puffed John.

Mike exhaled loudly through his mouth, going back to his left foot. “Thought about it all night, can’t get it out of my head.”

John reached out and grabbed Mike’s hand, staring into the round face of his friend. “Mike, it’s bullshit what happened. Everyone fucking hates it. Her Olympics might be fucked. But don’t let it fuck yours too. Like Lestrade says, get in the tunnel. You can’t look back in the tunnel, you can’t look around. You can only look forward.” John raised a finger in front of his face and Mike stared at it, caught between hypnosis and alarm. “Get in the tunnel, Mike. It’s tunnel time.”   

The bell sounded. “Athletes! To your groups, please.”

…..

“Here come the athletes now for their introductions, Irene. The first group is made up of the top six qualifiers – what can you tell us?”

“Kohei Uchimura of course an unstoppable force in men’s gymnastics. He’s won the past six all-around titles at the World Championships and of course the all-around gold in London four years ago for Japan. The overwhelming favourite to win this event, but showed some uncharacteristic errors in qualifying – but don’t write him off, he’s still the hot favourite here.” 

 “Oleg Verniaiev of Ukraine and David Belyavskiy of Russia the other top two qualifiers here today. Verniaiev qualifying in first position, beating out Uchimura.”

“That performance earlier in the week really the best of his career, finished 11th in London as an 18 year old, but more recently has finished fourth all-around in the previous two World Championships. In top form here today, Kate, this could be a nail-biter.”

……

John stepped forward, waved to the crowd as “John Watson, Great Britain” was called over the PA. Before the man next to him had even stepped forward the crowd was screaming, yelling; you could only hear the “Sergio Sasaki, Brazil” if you really strained. A little thought scurried into John’s brain: _0.22_. _Back you go,_ John chided himself, _back into the tunnel_.

….

 “A sensational start for Watson in this competition on the pommel horse, Irene!”

“His favoured apparatus of course, Kate, but a 15.875 is a really great result for him on that apparatus, setting the bar high and he can go forward to the next rotation with confidence. Watson could be a contender today despite having qualified in eighth place; earned the all-around silver at the 2014 worlds and then placed fifth in 2015 after a fall on the high bar. He’ll need to come out firing today to make his mark in this strong field, but off to a great start.”

“Mike Stamford also competing today for Great Britain. We’ve all heard the shocking news of last night’s attack on British rhythmic gymnast Sarah Sawyer, struck in the leg by a mystery assailant within the Olympic Village itself. John, Mike and Sarah all long-time training partners at the Bakersfield Gymnastics Club in London. Sarah formerly competed in the artistic gymnastics disciplines before making the switch to rhythmic gymnastics in her late teens, so these three would have grown up together. Is anxiety for their teammate likely to impact their performances today?”

“A truly awful incident, Kate. These are professional athletes and they’ll be focused on the task at hand, we’ve certainly seen that from Watson with his first score that he’s getting on with the job.”

“Mike’s first routine just complete now, he’s come away with a 14.733 on the rings, not his best score but respectable. Mike moves on to the vault, John coming up to the rings in this rotation.”

……

John looked down the tunnel. This particular tunnel was a runway one metre wide, twenty-five metres long, and had a one hundred and thirty-five centimetre high vaulting table at the end of it.

Step up. Salute. Run. Bounce. Right hand spring. Two front turns. Land (stick).

Step up. Salute. Run. Bounce. Right hand spring. Two front turns. Land (stuck).

…..

“Well, Kate, here we are at the half-way point in this competition, and it has not disappointed! Uchimura taking the early lead over Verniaiev after their first event on floor, but the Ukrainian battling back and outscoring Uchimura on the next two events and currently in the gold medal position. The Japanese star in Bronze medal position and our own John Watson currently in the silver medal position with three rotations to go.”

“Really exciting stuff, Irene, the whole Arena is on the edge of their seats watching these titans of sport.”

…..

John looked at Lestrade’s grey hair, his face calm and open as he brushed the leftover gunk from the American’s routine off the bars. John opened the jar of Boscombe Valley honey and sniffed at it. Deep, rich and fruity; as ever. Sussex’s finest. John used two fingers to scoop out some of the golden liquid and smeared it onto his hand, sprinkling some chalk over the top to make a sticky slurry. Spreading it over his palms, he walked up to the springboard, ready to mount.

.....

“Well, Kate, this is an unbelievable day of gymnastics! What a thrilling couple of rounds -that strong vault from Uchimura pulled him above Watson and moved him closer to Verniaiev after the fourth rotation; but in the fifth, a huge performance from the Ukrainian eclipsing Uchimura on the parallel bars, leaving him with the gold medal for the taking. Verniaiev brings an 0.901 lead into the final rotation, where everything is on the line!  High bar is arguably Uchimura’s best event and he will begin with a higher difficulty routine. He fell on this routine in qualifying; that’s got to be going through his mind.”

“Irene, this is a battle worthy of the ancient Greeks themselves. After a less difficult routine from Watson on the parallel bars, he’d fallen slightly behind the two leaders, but looked good, comfortably clear of fourth-placed Chinese gymnast Chaopan Lin. But then! The Russian, David Belyavskiy, huge performance on the parallel bars in the fifth rotation. Watson’s final rotation is on the floor, not one of his best apparatuses; it’s Watson, Belyavskiy, Lin and Deng, also from China, all with realistic medal chances.”

“The tension is palpable, Kate, the audience on the edge of their seats. You can practically smell it in the air. Everything will be decided by the final rotation.”

…..

Exhale. Rock back, breath in, rock up; bounce, bounce, bounce. Exhale. Rock down. Inhale, rock up; bounce, bounce, bounce.

…..

“We go first to Watson, first up on the floor. Can you do, it John?”

“Come on, John!!”

“Ohooh… oh yes, very tidy, three and a half punch twist, very nice… and oh! Ooh, no, he’s got it! Well, that was a very polished performance from Watson, finishing with a 15.2 on the floor, giving him a final score of 90.641. As it stands, with his main competitors still to complete their final rotation, he leads.”

“Now, Lin, the Chinese athlete fifth coming into this rotation takes the floor…. Ooh!! A big tumble at the start Irene! Oh no, another!”

“He almost fell there, Kate, not good at all for him, that’s his medal chance gone you would have to think… yes, he scores 14.866, so he is behind Watson and now unlikely to win a medal. His total is 90.230.”

“We go now to the high bar, where the medals will be decided. Deng is on to the high bar and hoping for a perfect performance to muscle in on the medal reckoning. It looks very good indeed… he is pleased with that performance, Irene, and the landing is near perfect… but it’s only 14.966 and not good enough! Indeed he is 0.1 behind Lin. David Belyavskiy from Russia approaching the apparatus now…he needs 15.260 on the high bars to overtake Whitlock and secure a medal for Russia. Can he do it?”

“It’s good, Kate, it’s very good and he looks confident of his chances. Watson looks at the scoreboard … he looks more nervous now than he did while competing. Belyavskiy’s score is about to come through…. it’s 15.133 – not enough - and he’s out of the top now!”

“You could cut the tension with a knife here Irene, my heart is in my throat, as Uchimura, the King, steps up to the high bar.”

“Uchimura, unsurprisingly, going for a very difficult routine on the high bars…. ooohhhh and it’s a 15.8 from Uchimura on the high bar, his best performance of the day!  That will see him overtake Watson... Now, Verniaiev, approaching the bar, all of the pressure and all the eyes in the arena will be trained on him. All Verniaiev needs though is a 14.9 to top Uchimura and take home the gold. In qualifying his high bar score was a 15.133, easily enough to dethrone the king if he can do it again. But can he?”

“Oh God, Irene, cover my eyes!”

“Three hours of stunning performances all come down to this. Ooh, that was a small mishap there… perhaps a small deduction… coming up to the dismount here…. Oh! A large hop there! God, it’s going to be close, so tight Kate, so _incredibly_ tight….”

“It’s in! It’s a 14.8! Uchimura has done it again, but only just! Listen to that crowd!”

“Amazing! It came right down to the very end, and just that hop on landing the decisive difference after hours and days of gruelling performances to get this far. And John Watson, look at him there, taking home the Bronze medal, but more than that, giving Great Britain its first gymnastics all-around medal in 108 years, there’ll be plenty of people wanting to buy him dinner back at the Olympic Village tonight Kate.”

“Just a spectacular day’s sport, one of the highlights of these games, one for the ages, what a nail-biter, the adrenaline is absolutely coursing through my body Irene and I am spent, SPENT.”

……  


***OFF AIR***

“Cover your eyes, indeed.”

“Mmm, please.”

“Not that spent, then?”

 

### Later that day, Americas Medical Village

It was like a hallucination. The hallways felt enclosing, suffocating; but they were wide and open. They were being hustled along at a pace so fast they were practically tripping; but the hallway went on, endless. He was the same man he was yesterday; but he was John Watson, Olympic medallist. It was like a winter coat, comforting and heavy on the shoulders. John shrugged his shoulders and smiled to himself.

They stopped suddenly outside one of the hallway’s many olive green doors, as next to him Mike narrowly avoiding head-butting Lestrade’s back. “Righto,” said the coach gruffly, “you go in, we’ll wait outside.”

Mike knocked carefully and pushed open the door.

“Oh- ah, it’s the boys! Wooo-hooo!!” There was a small gale of applause and cheers from the women in the room.

“Yes, yes, it is I, the eleventh-place finisher of the men’s all-around competition of the 31st Olympiad! Revere me!” proclaimed Mike, proudly standing in the doorway, arms wide open.

“Oof! What was that for?” he complained, clutching the pillow that had been thrown at him to his chest.

“Mystery, mate,” said John, budging Mike aside and making his way into the room for a fresh round of applause.

“Ooh, ooh, have you got it? Did you bring it?” said Molly, perching at the end of the room’s narrow bed and looking at John eagerly.

John sauntered over to the bed and settled opposite her, giving a squeeze to the small lump under the blankets that was Sarah’s toes and mouthing “hello” to their owner. He licked his lips and looked over at Molly “It’s right here… in…. my… pocket.”

“Go on then Bilbo, show us your precious,” said Mary with a purr, kneeling up next to Molly on the (now quite cramped) bed and leaning forward. A slice of blonde hair fell out from behind her ear as she moved, sending a little waft of fragrance towards John. She had on small pearl earrings, John noticed.

There was faint cough from the corner of the room.

“Sherlock! Did you come in with them?  Don’t hide in the corner!”

John’s head whipped round so fast he nearly fell, leg slipping out from under him. _Sherlock?_

But there he was, leaning up against the back wall, collar of the team jacket popped up against his cheekbones. John boggled. He definitely hadn’t been with in the minivan he’d come in with Mike and the others. No one on the team was allowed out of the village by themselves after last night, so he couldn’t have snuck in on his own…. Could he?

“Good evening,” Sherlock said formally, looking caught. “Don’t let me spoil the…ah…reveal?”

“Yes, John,” drawled Mary, “whip it out, do.”

_O-K_. “Righto, drumroll please….” The little group on the bed and Mike began a rumble of applause.  From the corner of his eye it looked as if Sherlock was rolling his eyes so hard they would spin out of their sockets.  “Guys, that was a bit half-arsed. I’m not going to get it out just for – oi!” he dodged away from Sarah’s poking foot under the blanket.

“Quit stalling, Watson,” she ordered.

John pulled out his hand from his pocket, holding up the medal on its luminous green ribbon, where it turned slowly, glinting under the fluorescent lighting. The soft ‘oooo’ from the room’s occupants was genuine; there was even a distinct inhalation from Sherlock’s corner of the room.

“Well, put it on,” instructed Molly. John slipped the ribbon round his neck and stood for inspection, arms behind his back. “Oh, well done John, you worked so hard, it’s so exciting, just good on you, really good on you,” enthused Molly, her hands wrung against her chest.

“We watched along live,” said Sarah, nodding at the huge TV in the room, “they just had the American coverage though, so we didn’t see all of yours and Mike’s routines.” 

“I’m sure Lestrade will get all the recordings if you’re desperate,” John replied, making a face.

“Right! Selfie time!” said Mary, “everyone onto the bed. John, you next to Sarah, in the middle… Sherlock, you get in it too.” Sherlock shuffled over and did an awkward half-crouch next to the bed to get his face in line. “Smile!”

“Oooh, nice one,” said Mary, looking at her phone with satisfaction. “Mike, are you on Instagram? Sherlock?”

“On what?” Sherlock snapped.

“Take that as a no, then….” replied Mary, unfazed, busily tapping away on the phone. “Done!” she said, pleased. “You know I got 300 new followers from that photo with Andy Murray I took in the lift?” she remarked to the room in general. “Let’s see what a money shot with John Watson can do, hmm?” she said with a cheeky wink.

“So, um, they gave me this little statue thing too,” John said awkwardly, delving into his bag to hide his face.  “Here, look,” he held up the small statuette of the games’ logo before passing it to Sarah.

“But what is it?” asked Mike, looking at it in Sarah’s hand. “Kind of looks like something you’d get in a Happy Meal, doesn’t it?”

“Mike!” exclaimed Molly. “I think it’s nice,” she said, “very… colourful.”

John shrugged; “better than flowers,” he said. “What am I going to do with flowers?”

“You could give them away,” said Sarah with another kick.

“But what are you going to do with _this_?” queried Mary.

“It looks as if it is the correct dimensions to hold the medal, a stand of sorts…” mused Sherlock, peering down at the sculpture in Mary’s hands. Everyone looked over at Sherlock, surprised.

“Let’s try it,” said John, holding out his hand for the colourful doodad. Placing the sculpture on Sarah’s bedside table, he took off his medal, tucked the ribbon in behind it and lowered it gently into the sculpture’s embrace. “Perfect fit! Nice one, Sherlock,” he enthused. “I’d never have thought of that.”  

Sherlock made no acknowledgement other than a toss of his head as he walked back to the corner of the room.

“Here,” said John, picking the medal up again and holding it out to Sarah. “Do you want to have a go?”

She reached out, gingerly taking hold of the ribbon. “Oh, heavier than you expect, isn’t it?” she asked. Sarah held the medal in her lap, running her thumbs over its edges. “Oh John, it’s….” she looked up at John with watery eyes, mouth quivering.

“Oh, shit, oh, no, don’t,” babbled John.

“Right! Everyone out! Let’s give these two a moment,” said Molly, shooing everyone towards the door.

“Aaahhhh…well… this is kind of awkward,” said John as the door creaked closed behind a murderous-looking Sherlock.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sarah sniffed. “It’s just, you know, what if this is as close as I get? What if I can’t compete? The qualifiers are less than a week away and I….” she dropped her hands into her lap. “I just can’t believe it. Like, what is even going on?  I was just walking back and someone just…. _belts_ me in the knee?  What the hell _is_ that!  I don’t even know why and I’m fucking _pissed_ , I’m pissed off right now, I’ve worked so hard and come all this way and… I don’t even know, John. I don’t know what to _do_. I’m just fucking sitting around and there’s no idea who this guy is, he could be whacking people left right and centre for all we know and I’m just…” she threw her hands up “…sitting around.”.  

“What do the doctors say? I heard this morning that there wasn’t a break, so that’s good, isn’t it?”

Sarah flips back the bed covers, showing off her hardware.

“Just a brace?  Dislocated patella, was it?” Sarah nodded.  “Could’ve been worse…” John mused, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “…But this bruising’s pretty intense. Swollen, too. Looks like you’ve gone five rounds with a wall. Must hurt,” he winced sympathetically.

“Like a motherfucker,” Sarah replied brutally. “Nothing stronger than panadeine either – still under the doping regs.”

“Ouch,” John winced again, pulling the blanket back over Sarah’s legs. “But does that mean there’s still a chance you can compete?”

Sarah made a face. “Not sure yet. Even if I can, it’s my right leg, I land most of my jumps on it…” she chewed her lower lip anxiously, “…well, it’ll be an absolute bitch, let’s just say.”

“That’s MORE than enough time, isn’t this a team sport? So the whole team should be let in? Stand aside!” Sherlock’s deep baritone preceded him into the room, door swinging open to reveal a half-dozen faces peering in behind him.

“Evening again, Sherlock,” said Sarah, flopping back down onto the raised bed.

“We should probably all leave,” Mary said pointedly from just inside the door. “It’s getting late,” her voice rose up at the end, like a question. John felt the answering yawn between his ears and swallowed it down.

“John and I will just stay a few moments longer,” Sherlock announced. John blinked at this information.

“Back together, yeah?” said Lestrade, sticking his head round the doorway, springing into action at the promise of returning to the tiny single bed he called his own. “And get a cab – you know the rules.”

With a flutter of farewell cheek kisses (for Sarah), congratulatory hugs (for John), and confused looks (for Sherlock) the door swung closed.

Sherlock drew up a chair to the side of the bed and steepled his fingers under his chin, eyes nearly colourless under the fluorescent lighting. “I just have a few questions,” he began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John! He did it! The men's All-Around final was [neck and neck](https://www.theguardian.com/sport/live/2016/aug/10/olympics-mens-gymnastics-all-round-final-live) all the way to the end - I hope I managed to convey the excitement of the event. Here's Briton Max Whitlock competing and look at the expression on his face! He finished in the bronze medal position, like another Briton we all know and love.  
> 
> 
> In the story John rubs honey on the bars: [this is a real thing](http://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10000872396390444097904577535700455486064) gymnasts do give them extra grip. And that's an Olympic Fact!
> 
> Here's some [cool backstory](http://hyperallergic.com/316484/the-2016-rio-olympics-medals-embrace-sustainable-design/) about the medals given out at Rio - they are hefty - 500g (about a pound) in real life. You did indeed get a ['little statue thing'](http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-08-17/rio-2016-what-is-the-figurine-athletes-are-receiving-with-medal/7749814) with them in lieu of the more typical flowers.
> 
> The Olympic Village has a [comprehensively-equipped polyclinic](http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/olympics/rio-2016/2016/08/11/olympic-athletes-doctor-visit-clinic-dentist-eye-doctor/88571526/) on site, but there were also arrangements to take them to Rio's newest hospital, [Americas Medial City](https://www.google.com.au/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=3&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiOhMu87PXQAhVFm5QKHe0pAakQFggkMAI&url=http%3A%2F%2Ftime.com%2F4440839%2Frio-2016-olympics-hospital-zika%2F&usg=AFQjCNE-efboAPHlE40M3dJQOoXILvmouA&sig2=HpcpoYQKSgtvTE2hGt27_g&bvm=bv.141536425,d.dGc), in case of an emergency that couldn't be handled there. That's where Sarah has been taken in this story.  
> 
> 
> John's 'tunnel time' focus technique was inspired by [this interview](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/olympics/2016/08/21/mo-farah-still-has-the-tunnel-vision-to-go-for-his-fourth-olympi/) with multiple gold medal winner, the British marathoner Mo Farah. 
> 
>  
> 
> **TOMORROW** John has a rest day to recover from today's exertions, but finds it rudely interrupted (all in the name of crime-solving, of course).
> 
> If you're enjoying this story, I'd really love a comment or kudos :) Mwa!


	9. August 13th, Olympic Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John continue their investigations. At least Sherlock does - John's just trying to keep up.

John cracked open one bleary eye. A shaft of grey fell half-heartedly into the room through the crack between the curtains, illuminating Bill’s cast off shoes and unmade bed. John rubbed his face against the thin pillow, yawning, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the windows. _Perfect day for a rest day_ , he thought with some satisfaction. His medal gleamed softly even in the dull light of the room, sitting innocuously on the miniscule nightstand where he’d placed it before falling face-first onto the bed last night. He smiled, a deep purr of satisfaction coming from his chest. So much _work._ So much _time_. And a bronze medal. _Not too shabby_ , thought John, and reached out to grab it.

“Wakey, wakey,” said a voice from the darkness, deep and wholly unexpected.

“Fuck! Fuck!” John scrambled upright and against the corner of the bed, peering into the gloom. “Sherlock?!”

The lights flickered on overhead, John wincing at the sudden brightness. “Get up,” commanded the baritone, “we have work to do.”

“Christ, Sherlock, you just can’t come into people’s rooms and – and - wake them up!” said John, sheets pulled up to his midsection, picture of outraged modesty.

“I think you’ll find you woke up naturally at the conclusion of your sleep cycle,” said Sherlock airily. “The last REM movements approximately 4 minutes and 23 seconds before signs of wakefulness were observed.”

John squinted suspiciously at Sherlock. “How long have you been in here watching me _sleep_?”

Sherlock looked marginally flustered. “Anyway, get up. Nice, hot cup of coffee,” he said, extending a ‘Team GB’ emblazoned mug to John, who gingerly sipped it.

“Oh, it’s cold,” John said.

“Nice cup of coffee,” Sherlock replied, somewhat mendaciously.

“Ergh, it’s horrible!”

“Cup of coffee,” said Sherlock, looking at the ceiling.

“I’m not even sure this is coffee!”

“Cup,” said Sherlock, popping the ‘p.’ “Anyway, get up. Things to do!” he said before striding into the small hall, where John could hear him unzipping the collapsible wardrobe and poking around inside it.

He went to set down the atrocious cup of mystery.  Could he put this repulsive liquid next to the medal?  _Could be acidic, for all I know_. _Best to put it on Bill’s table._

“If you’re going through my things, you can get me out some clean pants,” called out John to the rustling in the hallway, which ceased satisfactorily. “Give me 5 for a shower. And put the kettle on, I’ll make my own tea.” John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him as he walked past into the small bathroom and smirked. _They never fail_ , he thought, smugly, kicking the red pants off into the corner of the room and stepping into the shower’s spray.

A freshly washed and dressed John made his way into the lounge, eyeing off the steaming kettle with pleasure. A new mug sat next to it, complete with teabag, he noted approvingly. John poured in the water, poured in the UHT milk (can’t have everything) from the teeny little plastic doohickey with the minimum of fuss, and stirred, feeling as if all was well with the world, despite the rude start to his day.

John looked over at Sherlock, tapping away on his laptop. Wait, no - “Didn’t I have a password on that?” _Speaking of rude._

“RioPodium2016? Please, John,” said Sherlock scornfully. “The merest infant could have guessed it. And don’t think I don’t know that ‘pissoffSherlock’ is going to be your next one, either,” he said without looking up. _Well, it won’t be now_ , was John’s silent rejoinder as he sipped his tea.   

“So, what are we up to after breakfast, anyway? Where do we start?”

“No time for that!” said Sherlock, tossing John’s laptop onto the couch and bounding towards the door. “If we hurry, we can catch them at it.”

John’s mug clattered on the counter, discarded as he sprinted behind Sherlock’s retreating back.  


….

“You know, when you said ‘catch them at it,’ I didn’t think you meant catch the girls at training,” said John, idly watching Mary spinning a hoop on her collarbone before throwing it high in the air. He leaned back on his hands, legs stretched out on the floor and looked at Sherlock next to him, cross-legged and in the position John had fondly begun to label as ‘Sherlock’s thinking pose.’ He’d spent quite a lot of time looking like that last night, asking Sarah all sorts – not just about the attack, the competition, but about her, what did she plan to do after gymnastics, what media interviews she had done before leaving London– even Sarah and John’s short-lived romantic history had come up for examination, which had been some of the longest minutes of John’s life. Not even waiting for the points to come up at the end of the floor routine yesterday had been as excruciating as the investigation a brief relationship between two people that didn’t have as much of a life outside of gymnastics as they probably should have. _Life outside gymnastics_ , John thought. _Wonder what that’ll be like._

John gave Mary a small wave as she trotted over to her coach as the music died. Sherlock was still lost inside his own head as Mary and the coach conferred for a few minutes before Mary was coming back into the centre of the floor, giving John a wink as she assumed her starting position, ribbon wrapped round her neck and arm. As the music started she unfurled the ribbon, leaping across the floor as the ribbon made spirals behind her. He hummed along with the music as Mary cartwheeled across the floor to catch the ribbon as it fell gracefully into her hand.

_This really is the most amazing spor_ t, John thought. _What’ll Sherlock’s routines be like?_   He imagined Sherlock’s tall body vaulting across the floor, lean muscles flexing as he looked up to pluck something out of the air. Would his hair get in his eyes?  Or would he slick it back for competition?  John wondered how Sherlock would look without his curls – aquiline features drawn into greater prominence, cheekbones thrown into relief….

He was jolted back to reality by Sherlock giving a round of applause next to him, John joining in out of instinct more than anything else. Good thing too, as Mary was walking over to them, puffing with exertion. “Hello boys!” she said cheerily, standing over them. John pushed himself to his feet, returning the greeting even as he realized he had no idea what to say next. He looked down at Sherlock and extended a hand, pulling the taller man to his feet.

“So, what did you think?” asked Mary after a beat of silence.

“The Staniouta turn sequence was excellent,” said Sherlock, sounding warm and enthusiastic. “You did well on the pivot turns too.” John felt staggered. What was this new, friendly Sherlock? Mary seemed not at all worried, immediately engaging Sherlock in a conversation about switch turns. Or something. Vaguely nodding along, John let his eyes wander round the room.

More like a big tent than anything, there were no windows, and only one door. No way to see anyone outside waiting for you, which was a grim thought. John shook himself, attempted to follow the conversation again. Only seconds too late, as it appeared Sherlock and Mary where looking to him for an answer to something.

“Aaww, poor dear,” said Mary, squeezing John’s upper arm. “It was a big day for you yesterday, wasn’t it?  Bit tired now, aren’t we?” She gave a little cluck that somehow managed not to sound sympathetic at all. “I dare say you don’t know a Kundry catch from your elbow, anyway,” she said, giving his bicep another squeeze.

“Er, no,” replied John, looking at an impassive Sherlock for a clue, “but I did like your taste in music!”

“Ah!” said Mary again, seemingly delighted. “It’s one of my favourites! Are you much of a Bond fan?” 

“My favourite thing to do on a rest day is to have a Bond marathon,” John confided, “Pierce Brosnan is the best.”

“Oh no, Daniel Craig all the way!  He looks a bit like you, you know,” Mary trailed off, twirling a strand of hair round her finger.

“Aha, no,” said John, feeling unstuck at the sight of Sherlock’s flinty expression, “I think he’s probably a bit taller.”

Mary laughed. “You’ve got the muscles for it though.” Sherlock’s expression had gone from flinty to stony. Positively rocky, even.

“Umm, ah,” John attempted to compose his features into a solicitous expression. “How have you been?”

“Been?” said Mary.

“Yes,” said John, “…been?” 

At last, Sherlock decided to jump in and save him. “Yes, John’s been _so_ concerned about the team since the attack, you know. Came to see if there was anything that you needed? Wanted to talk about?” he looked at Mary attentively.

A flash of incredulity crossed Mary’s face as she looked at Sherlock and then back to John, before be replaced by something a bit softer. “Oh, aren’t you sweet? It has been hard, and of course we don’t know who it was which is the worst part, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh yes!” said Sherlock, the picture of apprehension. “They could strike again!”

John restrained himself from rolling his eyes with difficulty. What was this?

“But you two have got the right idea, going around in pairs,” continued Mary, reaching out to just graze the top of Sherlock’s hand with her fingertips. “Safety in numbers!”

Sherlock frowned. “And are you being…safe?” John garbled out, immediately cursing himself for his awkward phrasing.

Mary didn’t seem to notice though, instead pointing out to a blue and green-clad figure leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. “That’s my bodyguard!” she said, sounding vastly amused. “He’s from the Irish team. Boxer, you know, their events have already finished. Very proactive of me, wouldn’t you say?” 

John could only nod.

“Very,” said Sherlock, staring over at the man, slight and small. “Well, as long as you’re feeling safe. John! Time to go!” he finished, striding away.

“Oh, no, wait, I want another selfie!” complained Mary, following after him.

Sherlock turned back to face them, sharp on his heel. “Very well,” he said, leaving John’s head spinning at the sudden change of tack.

“I’ll just get my phone,” said Mary, running over to her ‘bodyguard’.”

“Sherlock, what is happening here?” asked John underneath his breath.

“Oh, we’re going to be Instagram famous, John!” chirped Sherlock as Mary trotted back.

“Here, Sherlock, take one of us first,” said Mary, tossing the phone to Sherlock. Mary fussed about John with her ribbon, putting it around his chest while keeping the two ends in her hands, before ducking behind him. “Right, John,” she said, “pretend like you’re running.”

John just managed not to groan. _Really?_ Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, so he did his best running man pose, coming up with a (not very) exaggerated expression of alarm to add to the comedic effect of Mary having ‘caught’ him in her ribbon. Sherlock snapped a few shots and then held the camera out to John.

“Yes, you’ll take this one, John,” said Mary, missing John’s side-eye at Sherlock as he obediently took the offered phone.

“Right, Sherlock, you next to me. Um… maybe an attitude derriere position?” Sounds like Sherlock, John thought complacently, flicking through the shots of him and Mary. They were kind of funny, he had to admit.

Looking up from the phone, John’s mouth went dry. Sherlock had toed off his shoes, taken off his jacket and was shimmying his tracksuit pants down over his hips to reveal tight black shorts that gripped the skin at the widest part of the thigh, skimming the line between sportswear and boxer briefs. John swallowed, temperature rising as Sherlock’s tracksuit fell. Long, long legs; miles of almost translucently pale skin. Loose t-shirt just riding on the top of the narrow hips. And Sherlock, grey eyes looking at him from underneath dark lashes, inky curls tousled afresh. “Ready?” his asked John from plump, pink lips.

John held up the phone, clearing his throat and feeling horrifically obvious as he looked at Sherlock and Mary standing at arm’s length from one another, Sherlock a little further from John. “Ok,” he said, positioning them in the centre of the screen. “Go”.

At that simple command, they took a small step forward and up onto one leg, bodies turned away from each other. The other leg was raised high, parallel to the floor, curving towards the other person. The arm closest to John was raised gracefully up, the other extended back behind the body. It was a stunning composition, and John just looked over the top of the camera for a long moment, drinking in the symmetry and beauty of the pose. Fortunately, he remembered what he was meant to be doing and pressed down on the button, inadvertently taking 17 separate photos.  He looked down at the screen and swallowed. “It’s lovely, guys,” he said. “Yeah, it’s a good one.”

Mary looked poised, elegant; but Sherlock looked strong, powerful and somehow… expansive, almost. He was all light and shadow; moon-white skin and dark hair; the lighting overhead sharply outlining the muscles on Sherlock’s calf and extended thigh, in his raised forearm. He was beautiful, so intense and so _alive_ , even just in that one movement. Why had he ever stopped doing ballet? John wondered fleetingly.

“I’m just going to text this to myself,” announced John, thumbs sliding over the screen. When he looked up again, Sherlock was pulling on his shoes, tracksuit back on.

“Thanks Mary,” he said, handing over the phone. “Glad you’re… keeping well. Good luck with those, er, Kundry catches!” he called, jogging after Sherlock, who was striding towards the door without a backwards glance.

“What was that, anyway?” John hissed to Sherlock as he caught up with him at the door, blinking in the sudden sunlight. “I thought you said we were going to solve a crime, not stand about for selfies!”

Sherlock made no response as he stuck out a hand into the street, causing a village shuttle bus to suddenly materialize out of nowhere. “Where to now, then?” asked John, climbing onto the bus. “Are we going to see the rest of the team?”

Sherlock gave him a little half smile. “No, John; we need to get you some breakfast.” John felt an unexpected flush of warmth at Sherlock’s thoughtfulness.  “I could hear your stomach rumbling even over the music you enjoyed _so_ much. Very distracting.”

John’s little flush withered sadly. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Do you follow Mary on Instagram?” enquired Sherlock, very coolly.

“Er, yeah, I think so?  They asked us to all follow each other before we left, cross promotion kind of thing, you know?” John swiped through his phone. “Look, there we are already. Or there I am, at least.” He held up the phone to display the picture of him and Mary doing his escapee pose. “What does it say?” enquired Sherlock, staring out the window.

John cleared his throat. “You can run but you can’t hide @johnhwatson! Got you with my @requin ribbon! Love this @britishgymnasticsofficial team! #medal #rio2016 #olympics #requin #TeamGB #rythmicgymnastics,” John finished up.

“All of it, John,” came the response.

John flushed, not so happily this time. “#runbabyrun #shakennotstirred. And then a whole bunch of emojis,” he muttered, tapping the phone against his knee.

“Mmm-hmm,” said Sherlock, eyes still on the window. “What does the H stand for?”

“Not telling,” John said, tucking the phone away. Sherlock finally turned from the window to give John a penetrating stare. “No, it’s a secret. Figure it out on your own.”

Sherlock stood abruptly. “Here we are, then,” he announced, sliding past John and bounding of the bus.

“So, do you think Mary had something to do with it, then?” said John round a mouthful of scrambled eggs, seated at one of the long tables in the cavernous athlete’s dining hall. Sherlock shook his head quickly, eyes on the small line of tray-carrying athletes straggling past the various serving areas.

“John, call her over,” nodded Sherlock at the line. John cranes his neck around, looking to see who Sherlock can possibly mean.   

“Anthea!” he called out, hands cupped round his mouth. “Over here!” he waved at her. She looked up and John can practically see the thought process as she sizes him up and shrugs internally. John shoots a look at Sherlock as Anthea walks over, unhurried, thumb swiping over the phone as she ducks round people and furniture, eyes never leaving the phone and tray never in jeopardy of falling. She sits the tray down next to John and starts to decimate a plate of pancakes with bacon, still staring at her phone.

John looks at Sherlock, who was nibbling tidily on his toast, clearly not going to give John any help. “So, competition’s over then?” started John.

“Yup,” she replied, scrolling the screen with her pinky finger.

“What are you going to do now?” prompted John after a moment’s silence.

Anthea shrugged. “Trying to get an internship. Got an interview lined up with the Ministry of Industry when we get back.”

“Wow, government, cool,” said John. _I’d rather do gymnastics until my shoulders explode_.

Anthea gave him a sideways look that seemed to imply he’d said that aloud, before going back to her phone.

“Is that your Instagram you’re looking at?” asked John, casting about for more conversational topics while Sherlock looked studiously at his toast.

 “Got me confused with someone else, I think,” said Anthea coolly.

“Yeah, she’s a bit into it, isn’t she?” John said in relief. “What’s that all about?” 

Anthea shrugged again. “What are you going to do post-Olympics, John?  Thought about it much?”

John paused, forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth.

“But a bit of public profile might open up a few more options for you, wouldn’t it? Must dash,” said Anthea, leaving John feeling distinctly off-kilter for the 23rd time that morning.

“Hey! Where are you going?  Don’t you need a buddy?”

Anthea smiled widely, showing a mouthful of straight white teeth in a way that was both innocuous and terrifying. “Oh, don’t you worry about me,” she said as she picked up the tray.

John swallowed. “Righto,” he said, believing her utterly, and looked down at his eggs.

“I have a contact at the Department of Sport, if that’s more your thing than Industry,” Sherlock drawled, tapping a mobile phone against his chin. “You’d fit in well there, I expect”. Anthea’s eyes flicked up from the phone and over Sherlock, before she nodded, turned on her heel and walked off.

“Are you ever going to contribute to these conversations?” asked John, watching Anthea make her way into the distance.

“You do very well on your own, John,” said Sherlock, pinching a bit of smoked salmon from John’s plate.

“Oi, manners,” he reproached, but without any heat. “And isn’t that my phone?”

“You shouldn’t pick passcodes that are simple geometric patterns if you don’t want people to guess them,” replied Sherlock, flicking at the screen with a long finger.

“It was in my pocket!” said John, incensed.

“Well, maybe don’t keep your phone in your back pocket if you don’t want it picked” said Sherlock, “although that wouldn’t stop me.”

“Is that just your way of telling me you’re keen to get into my pants?” said John calmly. He licked his lips as he watched Sherlock splutter, indignant.

“It’s fine, you know,” he smirked; “a body likes to feel wanted now and then.”

“Well, go and speak to _Mary_ then, if that’s what _a body_ wants,” Sherlock sneered, looming over John as he rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a training session,” he said, dropping the phone on the table and striding away.

John watched the head of dark curls flounce off towards the exit. _Bloody hell_ , he thought dazedly.  He picked up his phone, internet browser still open. John spun it right way round and peered down at the glowing screen, as under his disbelieving stare photo after photo of Daniel Craig walking out of the ocean in _Casino Royale_ winked back at him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the coffee cup scene is not actually from Sherlock (despite [the popular meme](http://weknowmemes.com/2012/03/here-you-are-john-a-nice-hot-cup-of-coffee/)). But I couldn't resist. The flesh is weak. 
> 
> [Mary & Sherlock's insta pose](http://media.mlive.com/fenton_impact/photo/9314696-large.jpg).
> 
> Here's some members of the Russian Artistic Gymnastics Team getting the bus back to the village. Check out the [whole slideshow](http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/photo/2016-07/27/c_135543291.htm) for some more photos of the Athlete's Park training centre.  
> 
> 
> What do elite athletes from all around the world eat? [Find out](http://www.bonappetit.com/entertaining-style/trends-news/article/olympic-village-food-rio).
> 
> **TOMORROW** In a lovely long chapter, Sherlock  & John have an excursion, investigations continue, and Sherlock makes a deduction.


	10. August 14th, Rio Olympic Arena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock continue their investigations and leave the confines of the Olympic Village. Meanwhile, the gymnastics programme continues with the vaulting final.

John crossed his arms over his knees, leaning forward as he peered down at the floor below, at the Ukrainian staring down the vault. _He’s going to do it_ , thought John. _He’s a crazy person_. The front handspring triple front – John had seen the training videos of Radivilov practicing the vault, but in none had he actually landed it. John sucked in his breath as Radivilov sprinted down the runway and – God! He was on his feet! But just for a second before falling back onto his bum.

John applauded with the crowd, shaking his head. He’d landed it, so the vault would officially be named after him, but even with such a high difficulty there’d be so many deductions he’d be out of the medals. The score popped up – 14.933 – he was out for sure. Was it worth it?  Long after Radivilov’s career was over, his name would still be recalled as gymnasts (even if only crazy ones) attempted the vault – was that more of a success than an Olympic medal?  Who remembered medallists anyway – they’d all be forgotten by Christmas. _Especially ones not coming back again_ , John thought gloomily.

Did it have to be that way though?  _Look at that guy_ , thought John, _35 and he’s still kicking it_. He applauded extra loud as Romanian Marian Dragulescu completed his vault – _15.266 –_ _definitely still got it!_  Another one with a named skill – John himself had done a Dragulescu vault here at this competition.

A good score, but so many others were better – the Korean and the Russian had both scored a 15.6 or over and were out in front, along with Henry Knight. John felt a surge of pride for young Henry – he was out there looking calm and his first vault had been an absolute killer. _He’s in the tunnel_ , thought John, Lestrade’s mindfulness practice paying dividends once again.

John sighed, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder. Gymnastics had been his life almost as long as he could remember – and in less than seventy-two hours he’d be finished his last competition and his gymnastics career would be over. If he was lucky, a few years of flogging breakfast cereal or toothpaste while he studied…would that pay the bills?  Or was it a career of professionally getting shot at?  John chewed on the side of his thumb, looking down at the vaulting platform below.

15.766. God, what a score!  North Korea’s Ri Se-gwang was waving to the crowd, in the gold medal position after that effort. 0.25 of a point between him and Shirai - not a bad margin, but Denis Ablyazin was running up and – that was solid too!  John looked up at the board as the scores were tallied - a tie!  A murmur ran through the crowd. Ablyazin was tied with Shirai in the silver medal position with Henry coming up – come on Henry!  John looked down at where Henry was approaching the starting area – the 6.4 starting difficulty of this vault flashing up on the screen. This was Henry’s most difficult vault – but he’d done in it the team competition. _Come on, Henry,_ though John, fists clenched on his knees. _Come on, come on, come on._

Oh! A big step backward on landing but he’d landed. Would the high difficulty be enough to carry it over? _Comeoncomeonecomeon_. _Fuck! Yes!_ John punched the air and cheered for Henry – it wasn’t the gold, but it was enough to see off the tied competitors and go home with silver.

“Henrryyy!!!!” yelled John, gleeful, Mike and Anderson screaming next to him.

“Bloody hell, he’s done it, he’s done it!” screamed Bill into his ear, clapping him on the back.  They were half-giggling in their seats with an excess of adrenaline as they had to quieten down for the next two competitors, who John watched with a keen eye, suddenly paranoid that one of them would pull some shifty manoeuver and deliver some outrageously high-scoring vault. They didn’t though; and John and his mates were free to holler as loud as they could as Henry stepped up to the podium and waved to the crowd, smiling as if his face would split with the joy of it.

The bus back to the village was jubilant, even without Henry and Lestrade, who would need to stick around for the press conference and photos after. Molly and some of the girls had turned out too and the bus was full of laughter and chatter.

John flicked through his phone – Mary had posted the shot with Sherlock from yesterday. “Practice makes perfect with #sherlockholmes! @britishgymnasticsofficial first male #rythmicgymnastics competitor!  #noreally #imserious #TeamGB #rio2016 #olympics” and then the usual bunch of emojis, finishing with a little rainbow at the end. John scowled at the phone. Well that seemed… rude, unnecessary. _What was her deal anyway?_

The knot of athletes spilled off the bus and headed into the Team GB building, with union jacks and lions stuck up proudly on every flat surface. Bellowing the national anthem, Mike led them into the common room.  

“Sarah!” John exclaimed, “You’re up and about! Fantastic!”  

She gestured to her knee brace, piled up on a stack of cushions and the crutches propped up beside her on the sofa. “Well, to a certain degree of up, anyway,” she replied, smiling. “How good did Henry do?? Amazing!”

John promptly started off into a discussion of the competition, praising Shirai’s Yurchenko entry with three and half twists, which led of course to explaining the tiebreak rule in detail (“because Shirai had the highest before the average, do you see, and…”).

“Sherlock!” Sarah cried, sounding inexplicably relieved.  John turned to look Sherlock man in the eye, smarting a bit from his gibe from yesterday.

“John, excellent. I need to use your laptop.”

“My laptop? You didn’t bring one?”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, “Yours is closer.”

“Closer? It’s in my room, eight stories up from here. How can it possibly be closer?” replied John, staring Sherlock down.

“My coach has…confiscated mine,” Sherlock eventually spat out.

“Going behind your coach’s back? Not sure I can support that,” said John, looking over at Sarah as if he was scandalised at the very thought.

Sherlock huffed out a breath through his nose, nostrils wide. “John it’s… important,” he said, with a very non-subtle look in Sarah’s direction. John pursed his lips, knowing this fight was already lost.

“Righto, come up then,” he muttered. Ignoring Sarah’s cheery wave goodbye, fluttering all her fingers at the two of them as they headed to the lifts.  They stepped in and Sherlock jabbed at the button.

“So…did you have training this morning?” asked John, to break the awkward silence in the elevator.

“Nope,” said Sherlock, with the pop of the ‘p’. “Gymnastics is not the only thing in life, you know John,” burst Sherlock suddenly. “Not the only game.”

 _What the hell did that mean?_ John opened his mouth, about to respond, when he realized it was Sunday. Fucking _Sunday_. The Sunday of Victor-bloody-Trevor’s fencing match.  “Mm,” said John through tightly pressed lips. The door opened and John marched through, fishing in his pocket for the keys. Once inside, John flicked the switch on the kettle as behind him he heard Sherlock open the laptop and settle on the couch.

Busying himself with the sugar and teabags, John sighed to himself. _What am I even doing? Plenty of fish in the sea, literally this is the epicentre of the sea, and here I am, making tea for this maniac._

He passed one mug over to Sherlock, who reached out a hand to grab it without looking up from the screen. John took his mug and looked out the windows onto the bright sunshine of Rio, at the athletes moving about far below. _The last village. I’ll never do this again._ He looked over at Sherlock, tapping away on his laptop. _A first for him, the last for me._   John watched the bright colours of the uniforms ebb and flow below, and concentrated on the warm mug in his hand.  He gave himself a little mental shake. _Tunnel time_.

At that moment, a slight young woman walked in the door, AUSTRALIA emblazoned across her bright yellow jersey. “Ah, hello,” she said, “I’m Melissa?” the upwards inflection of her accent making it sound like she was asking for confirmation.

“John, mate,” said Bill, sounding agonized as he entered the room. “Again? Hate to keep doing this to you, but…” and gestured towards the door with a shooing motion.  John looked over at Sherlock, frozen above the laptop.

“No worries mate,” John said slowly, an idea crystallizing in his mind. “We were just heading out.” Sherlock looked up from the laptop, brows raised in query. John met his look with a broad smile. “We’re going to the beach.”

### Barra da Tijuca beach

“Why didn’t you get changed at the village?”

“I did!” Sherlock gestured at his civvies, loose black tracksuit pants and a t-shirt decorated with a design of honeycomb and a bee that hovered above his right nipple. “I didn’t know you actually meant to go in the water!”

“Why would we go to the beach and not get in the water?” said John, nonplussed. “That’s kind of the point of going to the beach. I’d be upset that you left without trunks, but, as it happens,” he rummaged through his duffel bag and waved a scrap of plum-coloured fabric in the air triumphantly, “I anticipated this. Put ‘em on.”

Sherlock’s look was priceless. “These won’t fit me,” he said slowly, dubiously.

“Sure they will,” steamrolled John. “Look, they’ve got a drawstring and everything.”

Sherlock looked at John, blond hair glinting in the sunshine, expression stern except for the wrinkles ticking up at the corners of his eyes.

“Where?” Sherlock said plaintively, clutching the swimsuit. “There’s no changing rooms here.”

“No changing rooms?  Have you never been to the beach before?” said John. At Sherlock’s defensive look, he continued, “No, don’t answer. Just get changed under your towel.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted from defensive to lost. “OK, so, you wrap your towel around your waist and under the towel, you shimmy out of your clothes” he wiggled demonstratively, looking to see that Sherlock was following; “Then, you step into your trunks and you shimmy them up”, he finished, miming pulling up pants.

Sherlock was not following. John sighed. “Here, give me the towel and I’ll hold it.” John wrapped the towel around the apprentice beachgoer and stood staring out to sea, holding onto the corners behind his back, with Sherlock in a little towel cylinder behind him. “Off you go. Just don’t bend down too far or you’ll give everyone an eyeful,” he instructed, conscious of Sherlock pulling off his t-shirt behind him.

John grinned at the sparking ocean as Sherlock hopped and cursed behind him, striving to maintain the towel in the dignity-protecting area without falling over in it. “Right, Ok,” he heard Sherlock mutter to himself, as his warm trousers dropped onto John’s heels. John looked up at the sun, face hot, only to start when a hand was placed onto his shoulder. “Can’t balance in the sand,” Sherlock mumbled disconcertingly close to his ear as he shifted very close to John’s body.

John looked with great interest at a wandering drink seller on the beach as he felt the towel tense and relax as Sherlock shifted about in it. John wiggled his toes in the sand, remembering getting changed like this as a little kid in front of the cold seas of Cornwall. _Although mum looked in my towel to make sure I’d got my pants on the right way round_ , he smiled to himself. _She’d laugh, I bet, seeing this._

“Ok, done,” came the call from behind him, and John let go of one corner of the towel, pulling it up in his arms as he turned. The “See, easy?” died on his lips, mouth suddenly desiccated. Sherlock was standing in the purple trunks, very, very close. His pale skin was almost reflective in the bright sun, broken only by the pink of his nipples and small trail of dark hair leading down to the front of the swimwear that clung to the top of Sherlock’s thighs.

John swallowed, clutching the towel protectively. “Sun cream?” he offered finally.

“Oh, I have some,” Sherlock replied, fishing out an expensive-looking tube from his bag and squeezing some on to his palm.

John nodded, feeling slightly ashamed about the bright yellow bottle he’d picked up at Asda for £3 before he’d flown out.  Still, needs must. “Here, can you do my back?” he said, holding it out to Sherlock and turning around.

Sherlock was still for a moment before John heard the squelching of the cream and felt Sherlock’s hands on him. Sherlock was oddly conscientious about it, spreading the cream in great vertical stripes down John’s back with his large hands, right from his shoulder and hairline to the waistband of his trunks, as if making sure no inch of John’s skin would be left unprotected.  Used to mates slapping on cream on the shoulders haphazardly with one or two cursory rubs (nothing that could be considered as putting the romance into bromance!), it was a bit unusual, to say the least. Nice though.   

Soon Sherlock’s hand thrust the small tube at John’s side. No sooner had he taken it than he felt Sherlock turning behind him, presenting his back. John flicked up the lid at sniffed at it – Christ, it even smelled pricey, like citrus and mangoes and - he sniffed it again - kind of rainforesty? John was suddenly conscious of Sherlock shifting in front of him and he quickly squeezed out a generous measure and began rubbing it in, attempting to be as careful as Sherlock had been.

Clearly you got more for your money with this product than you did with Asda’s finest, as John had just created a big whitish smear on Sherlock’s lovely skin. “Er, I might have used a bit too much,” he said, pressing hard as he attempted to spread the cream down Sherlock’s lower back.

“Ok, done,” he said after a few minutes of vigorous rubbing that had (mostly) wiped the excess off. “No sun will get you, trust me.”

Sherlock stood, fiddling with his drawstring. “So, let’s… go in?” he said.

John dusted some sand off his sky blue bathers. “C’mon, I’ll race you,” he called back at Sherlock as he sprinted towards the sea. Just as the sand began to feel wet underfoot, a pale streak flashed past him and splashed into the water, Sherlock bobbing up moments later with a self-satisfied expression.

“Unfair!” John complained, wading into the ocean. “You have longer legs than me.”

“How is that unfair?” said Sherlock “It’s not my fault you’re a short-arse.”

“Well, it’s unfair to rub it in”.

“Oh, is that your philosophy on sun cream too?” enquired Sherlock loftily.

“Git!” said John fondly, sending a splash of water at Sherlock, whose dark head retreated under the water like a seal.

John smiled to himself and carefully laid back, floating on the gentle swell of the waves.  He relaxed, enjoying the cool of the ocean on his sun-warmed body. Until Sherlock’s head popped up next to him and he rolled over in surprise, coming up spluttering.

“I haven’t been in the sea in _ages_ ,” John said, half to himself, as he looked upon the line of the horizon.  He was surprised to see Sherlock looking at him expectantly. “Mate’s stag do in Benidorm last year, no, the year before,” John recollects.

Sherlock scrunched his nose up in distaste. “Yeah, you’ve got that right. Feral, it was. Beach packed with people, rubbish everywhere, drunk dickheads on mobility scooters. Never again. I’m too old for that shit.” Sherlock laughed, a big, generous laugh that showed all his chins as his jaw tucked into his neck. “I only had one light beer the entire time, too,” finished John, charmed. “I had the world championships the next month, you see.”

“Poor blossom,” said Sherlock lightly, on eye level with John in the water. _He must be crouching down under there_ , John realized belatedly. _Because I’m only hanging on with my toes_.

“You like it here, don’t you,” accused John, suddenly sure. “You like the sea, I mean.” Sherlock ducked his head under and John got a flash of smooth back and thin legs as Sherlock somersaulted in the water.

“Mmm,” Sherlock said as he rose, pushing the hair plastered to his face straight back; “I always have.”

“Did you do much swimming in France?” John asked, wanting to draw out this glimpse of something soft and private.

Sherlock made a face. “Marseilles beaches are usually full of people, and if the wind blows the wrong way, full of filth from the port. And I don’t like the pebbles, they hurt my feet,” he said primly. John laughed quietly, entertaining an endearing mental image of Sherlock delicately picking his way across a pebbled beach.

“The best is to go up the coast to the Calanques,” Sherlock continued dreamily. “Tiny little beaches, and the limestone mountains go right up to the sea.” He sculpted the shape of the mountain in the air, long fingers fluttering.

“The sand is so white, John, from the limestone, and it makes the sea look _so_ blue. So clear. In the summertime, you can smell the resin from the pine trees as it rises in the sun.” He paused. “And at Morgiou, you can dive to this cave. You have to dive through a long tunnel,” his fingers mimed flippers, “nearly 200 metres long, and then at the end the cave opens up and it’s above the water level. And people, people twenty-seven thousand years ago painted animals there, John, they painted deer and seals and birds and _why_?  Why did they do that?  What was the _reason_?”  Sherlock chewed at his lip as he looked out at the sea.

“Have you done it? Have you done the dive?” John asked, nearly breathless.

Sherlock looked over at him and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, maybe. Maybe one day.”

“It sounds amazing,” said John sincerely. “I’d like to see it.” _I’d like to see you see it_.

Sherlock turned to him, eyes the intense blue of the Atlantic. “People die doing it,” he said eventually, before looking back out at the horizon.

John desperately wanted to know; he wanted to ask about what happened in France and why Sherlock left the ballet and who is Victor to him?  But the spell would be broken; _I’d ruin it_ , he thought. So, he did a somersault instead, but it was messier than Sherlock’s because he couldn’t reach the ocean floor.

 

### Olympic Village

“Get down! Crouch! Faster!” commanded Sherlock as John scurries, bent double, along one of the village’s perimeter wall. Sherlock, for his part, is making a 45 degree angle with the outside of someone’s second story balcony; one hand holding the railing with his feet braced against the concrete. In his outstretched hand a phone on a selfie stick, filming John as he runs to and fro, as he has while standing on a dumpster, climbing on top of outdoor furniture, and in a dozen other places in the village in the last ninety minutes.

“Again!” called Sherlock, adjusting his footing to an even more precarious angle. _Please don’t fall off_ , John prayed as he scuttles back the way he came. _I’d never be able to explain it. How did we get from ice lollies on the beach to this?_

John squinted up at Sherlock, dramatically silhouetted against the afternoon sun. “Get it?” he called, but Sherlock is already beginning to clamber back down the wall. Heart in mouth, John is too anxious to marvel at Sherlock’s impressive flexibility as he reaches between balcony and guttering pipe, dropping the last metre or so.

“What have we got?” John said, walking up to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock scrolls through the phone and begins to play John the footage. In some of them he can clearly be seen, darting across the bottom of the frame. Some appear to just be seconds of the scenery (or whatever you want to call pathways of an Olympic village), John only partly in frame and only the occasional huff of breath from Sherlock audible as takes the shot. He looks up at Sherlock, whose expression is typically inscrutable. He will wait for John to get the answer himself, he realises. John takes the phone and swipes back and forth between the videos, brow furrowed. He looks at the last ones shot, each angle slightly different as Sherlock hung from the balcony, each with a different amount of John visible – sometimes his whole body, or just the top of his head. John scurrying, running, commando crawling across the ground; but he’s always in the shot, even if just partially.

John looks up at the balcony where Sherlock had been hanging, looks at the building behind it.  

“The cameras,” he said slowly, “you’ve replicated the CCTV angles… but I’m in all of them.”

Sherlock smiles approvingly. “Clever, isn’t it?” he remarked. “The invisible man. Invisible weapon, too, apparently.”

“What?” said John, on the back foot once again.

“What did he do with the _weapon,_ John?”  Sherlock replied impatiently. “Did he eat it? The likely scenario would be to dispose of it somewhere along the way, a dumpster, a bin, just in case someone caught him with it.”

“He must have brought it back with him?” said John. “He’s confident, right? Or maybe it’s something that doesn’t look like a weapon.” Sherlock looks at him, cocks his head to the side. “Like maybe a bit of sporting equipment?” continued John, warming to this idea. “Golf clubs? Or a bike pump? Or even a discus, yeah? Or what about-”

“No,” said Sherlock, blinking.

“Why not?” said John, aggrieved.

“Because it’s never sports equipment,” said Sherlock.

“Mmmm. Maybe it was a baseball bat?”

“A what?”

“A baseball bat?  You know?  Long, heavy, made of wood?  Classic assault weapon.”

“Baseball was removed from the Olympics programme after 2004. It is _never_ sports equipment, John!”

Sherlock runs his hand through his hair in frustration, causing it to stand up practically on end, stiff with salt. John is captivated; instantly delighted out of his irritation with Sherlock’s dismissing his (eminently credible) sports-equipment-as-assault-weapon theory, baseball bat or no. Sherlock marched off, muttering vehemently to himself about discuses.

“Where are we going now?” says John, falling into step with the taller man.

Sherlock looks down his long nose at John. “To get you something to eat,” said Sherlock eventually. “It’s obvious your hunger has impaired your brain function.” John’s stomach heartily agrees with this suggestion, so John ignores the insult and walks briskly alongside Sherlock, who’s still muttering something about kinetic energy and blunt force trauma.

>>>> 

“You have to have more, go on, look at those gnocchi, delicious,” needles John at the pasta counter, creating a small spaghetti-and-meatball mountain on his own tray. He looks over sadly at Sherlock’s small helping of a vegetarian fettucine. “Where’s the protein in that?” he demands.

“There’s mushrooms in it,” replied Sherlock defensively.

John looks up as a metal tray clatters down next to him.  “Oh, g’day Bill,” he said absently.

“How was the beach?” Bill asked, reaching across John’s body to grab the Pasta Puttanesca serving spoon.

“Yeah, fine thanks,” said John, trying not to notice how relaxed Bill looks. _Berk_.   

“Oh, seen the dessert stand tonight Johnny?” Bill continued breezily. “Looks like spotted dick was off the menu today,” he chuckles. John slapped down some steamed greens onto his plate. “Plenty of pineapple though! Gotta keep sweet, right!”

“Ha bloody ha, dickhead,” John grits out, moving on to the next station.

“S’not my idea!” chortled Bill, nodding over at where Sherlock appears to be staring at the tropical fruit laid out on the dessert stand. “Considerate, if you ask me,” Bill continued.

“Fuck _off_ , Bill,” John spits out, knuckles white around the edge of the tray.

Bill smirked. “You oughta relax more, Johnny boy. All that tension’s no good for a body.”

The structural integrity of John’s teeth is at serious risk as he loads up a few more things on his tray and turned to seek out a table, seeing Bill waving at him ostentatiously from a table that also contains Mike, Molly, Henry and Sarah.

“Oh look, the gang’s all back together,” said Sherlock from behind him, low and dark. John makes a vaguely affirmative sound as he marches off to the table, sliding his tray next to Molly’s, which is by happy coincidence about as far from Bill as he can get.

“Hey! Sarah!” said John _, cool, happy, noncha-fucking-lant!_ “How’s the day been?”

“Oh, it’s tragic,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, “haven’t you heard?  My poor old knee is no longer the top story at these games.”

“Outrageous!” replied John, trying hard to enter into the spirit of the thing. “Who’s nicked your thunder, then?”

“What, you haven’t heard?” chimes in Molly. “You must be the only ones in the entire place.”

“It’s Ryan Lochte, the swimmer, the American?” said Sarah, pausing for emphasis. “He’s only gone and gotten himself held up at gunpoint!”  John raises an eyebrow, mouth full of meatballs.

“Yeah it’s all over the news mate. Sounds a bit fishy though if you ask me,” said Mike, intently slicing a baked potato.  “‘I was all, like, whatever,’” said Mike, brandishing cutlery as he forms quotation marks in the air, “pull the other one. If someone pulled a gun at me I’d be shitting myself and no mistake,” he finishes as Molly cackles.

John raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, look,” said Sarah, poking at her phone. “Look at this,” and slides the device over, the screen lit up with the blue-haired American swimmer standing in front of a beach. Sherlock leans in close as the video plays and they strain to listen to the video’s crap sound quality in the noisy hall.

“Liar,” said Sherlock, without any doubt, as the video stopped.

“Oh, you can’t know that for sure,” said Sarah sceptically.

“Certainly I can,” snapped Sherlock. “In the re-enactment here, he takes the point of view of the gunman, not himself as purported victim. Notice he also points his fingers at the interviewer’s cheek and eye, not the forehead. Inconsistent. And the gesticulation for the handgun? Highly atypical. Two-fingered pointing softens the impact, any flight attendant or theme park employee will tell you.  He avoids using aggressive gestures subconsciously, because no aggression was perpetrated on him. Gesticulation, dark glasses and wear on the shirt collar indicate aggression on his part, likely under the influence of alcohol as we can see by the stained fingers. So I say again: Liar.”

There is a minute of stunned silence at the table. “Called it,” said Mike proudly, forking potato into his mouth as celebration.

Everyone laughs and John beams, sliding a plate of soft cheese and quince paste in front of Sherlock. “As a present,” he says quietly. “But also, protein.”

“Jeez, John,” drawled Bill, “I didn’t know you cared about brains as well.” John’s fork vibrated in his fist as he feels six pairs of eyes upon him. “I didn’t think that Mexican table tennis player back in London—Silvia wasn’t it?—had much going on upstairs.”

“Bill,” said Mike warningly.

“No offence mate,” said Bill, raising his hands in the air, “just interested in how we’re all growing up, that’s all. Was a bit different back in London village, Sherlock, you see,” Bill continued, John feeling Sherlock stiffen next to him. “Little Three Continents here got around.”

“Yes, all of us are growing up,” said Molly tonelessly as she rises from her seat. “C’mon, Sarah, I’ll help you back.”

John smiled a goodbye at the girls, feeling as if it must be a rictus grin. He stabbed at some green beans as they depart, Mikes’ jovial “Goodnight, Molly” doing nothing to ease the tension.

“Yes,” continued Bill as if there had been no interruption, “tell us, was that Australian synchronized swimmer a secret genius as well?  Or what about that Canadian horse riding chick, hmm?”

Under the table, John’s fists clench and relax. “ _Equestrian_ , Bill,” he spits out, the first retort that comes to mind.

“Equestrienne is the female form of the word, I think you’ll find,” said Sherlock as he stands and departs.

John watches Sherlock go before turning back to the table. “Bill. What. The. _Fuck_?”

Bill leant back in his chair, one foot up on his knee as he stretches his arms expansively. “You really need to relax, mate. Lighten up.”

“Lighten up? Lighten up about you being the world’s biggest cockhead?  What the fuck _was_ that?” 

“What? Embarrassed are you now?  Don’t be; this is 2016 after all.”

“Don’t give me that _shit_ ,” John interrupts. “You can’t expect me to swallow that.”

Bill raised his eyebrows. “You want something to swallow?  Get after your boy genius then, why don’t you? Or are you not as desperate for dick as you look?”

John surges up against the table, and jabs a finger at Bill’s chest. “Fuck you, Bill,” he spits. “Is that how it is?  Get fucked. Get absolutely and utterly _fucked_. And not by me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Johnny, Johnny, _relax_ ,” replied Bill, still leant back on his chair. “All that stress. You’ll fall off something.”

Oh. _Oh_. “Oh, I see,” seethed John. “Trying to wind me up before Tuesday, is that it?  Don’t think you can beat me, so you try to fuck with me a little? Do you actually care who I shag, or is being a homophobe just fucking coincidence?”

John is suddenly wrenched back by an iron grip on his shoulder. “Christ, lads, what do you think you’re doing!” Mike hisses.

John abruptly recalls that they are in public; the others are in team uniform; in a dining hall full of athletes, no less. Athletes even now paused mid-mouthful, forks hanging in space as they look on eagerly. _Just another fucking sport,_ John thinks bitterly.

Slowly, deliberately, and with iron clad self-control; John straightens up, takes his tray, says “Good night” to no one in particular and walks out of the dining hall.

........

John jogs. His breath forms in front of him in puffy clouds, the temperature falling as night closes in over the high-rise village. Despite the chill in the air, the village is bustling with people. Joggers, cyclists, couples entwined under trees, groups heading out for a night on the town – with the games half over, the atmosphere is beginning to feel rowdier every night.  He’d half-toyed with waiting in the room for Bill and having it out properly, but he didn’t fancy having his competition ended prematurely, either in punishment or from a broken knuckle. So he concentrates on the inhale and exhale, the rhythm of one foot in front of the other.

It seems inevitable that he’s run to the training facility, its white walls shivering in the breeze as John’s feet run ever closer to it. Outside, he can hear classical music playing through the tarped walls, something moody and dark. He puts his fingertips to it and thinks about something Sherlock had said about not needing much sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gymnasts are coming up with new moves (called 'skills') all the time. When they successfully execute a new skill in international competition, it is named after them in the official scoring guide, the Code of Points. Rio saw a number of new skills attempted, including both the vaults described in this chapter. The Radivilov (if it had been successful) would have been the most difficult vault ever performed. Just how difficult? It looks like this:  
> 
> 
> The Team GB building in the Olympic Village really does have [Union Jacks on every available surface](http://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/sneak-peek-british-olympic-heroes-8553964).  
>   
> Because of its size, Team GB occupied an entire building but the process of working out which teams are accommodated where begins TWO YEARS before the games. It's fascinating.
> 
> [This is where](http://blog.secretescapes.com/2015/08/12/secret-swimming-the-calanques-of-marseille/) John wants to see Sherlock swim. The [Cosquer cave](http://www.bradshawfoundation.com/cosquer/index.php), with its cave paintings, is also a real place. [Gymnasts at Rio beach](https://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/the-us-mens-gymnastics-team-is-so-hot-its-problematic?utm_term=.ivRjaXaDx#.qyL6lOl8X) (the article title is "The U.S. Men’s Gymnastics Team Is So Hot It’s Problematic", so you know what you're getting in for). 
> 
> I'm from Australia and getting changed under towels is a useful skill, because you don't always have a trustworthy mate (or your parents, for small kiddies) to hold up a towel between you and the car. [This link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lG-p9M5FBWw) for swim bottoms only or [this link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihas5b8vL3k) if you wear top and bottoms.
> 
> Even in Australia, we got lots of coverage of Ryan Lochte being a moron. If you missed it, [here's the lowdown](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lochtegate).
> 
> The [dish of quince paste and soft cheese](https://www.thesun.co.uk/sport/rio-2016/1571722/rio-olympics-2016-a-look-at-the-amazing-brazilian-food-being-served-to-athletes-in-the-olympic-village/) John gives to Sherlock is a Brazilian specialty, called... Romeo & Juliet. No further comment.
> 
>  **TOMORROW** The evening before John's Parallel bars and Pommel Horse finals, Team GB needs to attend a formal function. Time to suit up.
> 
> Also I noticed overnight there were a whole bunch of new people that came to this work. Yay! Where did you all come from? You're all very much appreciated x


	11. August 15th, British House, Parque Lage, Rio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The athletes from Team GB attend a swish function at British House. Among the dignitaries, John has an encounter with someone in a minor position in the British government.

John smooths his hands down the front of his suit trousers, mainly to keep himself from fiddling with his hair. _It looks fine_ , he tells himself as the minibus bumps up the fancy driveway. _It won’t have changed from the village to here_.

“Jeez, flash, innit?” Anderson mutters next to him, forcing John to try and peer round the back of his head as they approach their destination. As Anderson looks sadly at his phone (his photo of a scene at dusk taken from a moving vehicle has gone about as well as can be expected), John can finally see the blue, red and white streams of light that illuminate the historic building.

Judging by the chorus of ‘oof!’s as the bus lurches to a halt, John isn’t the only one who was distracted by the lights. The building looks amazing, all lit up against the trees and the backdrop of Christ the Redeemer at the top of the mountain. _Very dramatic_ , John thinks as he waits for the little scrum at the doors of the minibus to clear. He snaps a photo from the window before leaving, the bronze medal round his neck striking against his chest as he steps out onto the ground.

Another minibus has pulled up behind theirs and starts disgorging more navy and red clad athletes, all adjusting their suits or framing up a photo. “Ready, Captain?” says Bill with a slap on his shoulder. “Let’s go sell us a country and not have any drinks. Or something,” he finishes before starting up the stairs to the entrance.

John stares at the back of Bill’s head, willing himself not to smack it, before he follows, ready to do his best for this sponsor shindig. Olympics don’t pay for themselves, he knows. “Look boys, all you have to do is wear the suit, smile, and don’t get pissed before the party starts,” Lestrade had said to them that afternoon. “Except you two. No drinks for you,” he’d amended while glaring at John and Bill; “and make sure you’re back in the village and in bed by 9pm.”

John’s trying to simultaneously crane his head up to examine a huge sculptural light fitting and look down at the union jack lit up on the stair treads; it’s hard not to be overawed. There are people everywhere; people in their Team GB uniforms; businesspeople in suits, official lanyards conspicuously displayed; white-jacketed waiters manhandling drinks trays. It all funnels out into a large colonnaded courtyard with a huge TV screen at one end that seems to be playing a mix of enthusiastic slogans and stock footage from tourism UK, as if people have never seen Piccadilly Circus before.

What they definitely haven’t seen before though is an Olympic medal; so John is an instant celebrity – everywhere he turns someone is asking for a photo, wanting to look at the medal, or just grabbing it off his chest. It’s awful. But he holds grimly onto a glass of water and nods and smiles for selfie after selfie, hoping he’s doing it right and all these people will buy something, like a stadium or a tunnel or a new gymnastics studio.   _“It was Watson,_ ” they’ll say; _“John Watson, so obliging with his selfies. We knew then we could count on Britain to build us this railway/powered armour suit/school for mutants. A hundred thousand pounds for him. Huzzah!”_ So he smiles and nods, nods and smiles.

In a half-daze he stumbles on a waitress with a tray of canape-sized beef wellingtons. He crams two in his mouth and grabs another in each hand, wondering if he can position himself to stop the waitress from moving without being too obvious. He settles for hovering a hand possessively over the wellingtons ( _proper horseradish sauce – ecstasy!_ ), only to find another hand pinching one, two, three of the tasty morsels. John makes a mournful sound round his mouthful of beef and pastry.

“Mmf. Good,” mumbles Mike, snatching up two more and shovelling them into his face. John grins, Mike’s happiness shining out of his every pore. One hand rests possessively on the silver medal round his neck, even as the other nicks more canapes.

“Alright mate?” said John, knocking a friendly elbow in Mike’s side.

“Mmm. Mmmff,” Mike responds, smile all bliss and face all crumbs. “So hungry,” he says, utterly redundantly, “so tired. These are good!”   Mike suddenly exclaims, pointing a stubby finger at the tray.

He’s known Mike for years; they’ve picked each other up off mats after falls, roomed together at a hundred different training camps, and here they are with Olympic medals stuffing fancy bits of pastry into their mouths like they’ve never been fed before, and it all suddenly seems very bright in the courtyard.

“Too right they are,” John gets out, grabbing Mike in a sideways hug. “Too right.”  

Mike swallows his mouthful and looks at him with a knowing little smile. “There’s tea in the room over there,” he says, pointing. John is suddenly stricken by terrible thirst and makes a sound of inexpressible longing. Smiling, Mike makes a shooing motion at John, and then picks up all the remaining canapes.

Sucking horseradish sauce from his thumb, John makes his way into the room Mike had indicated. It is beautiful; although the high ceilings with elaborately carved, dark wooden panelling extending halfway up the wall conspire to make John feel even shorter than normal.  The tea service is just as posh as everything else - delicate china with a proper sugar bowl and creamers. Cautiously placing the cup on the saucer, his care is nearly undone as a body presses close against him on his right side. “Bit upmarket, isn’t it?” says Mary into his ear as she reaches across John’s body for one of the creamers.

“Mmm,” said John, blowing onto the surface of the tea. “Enjoying the party?”

Mary shrugged noncommittally. “S’all networking, isn’t it?  Enjoying yourself isn’t the point.” She sips meditatively. “Still, it’s a nice change from all that cafeteria food. And red _is_ my colour,” Mary says coquettishly, striking a pose that shows a bit more of the red blouse the female competitors all wear underneath their suit jackets.  

John nodded politely and raises the teacup to his lips, but it’s still scalding. More milk. “What about you?” Mary asked, “lined up any post-competition prospects?”

John frowned. “Well, ah, I think Bill’s got the room bagsed,” he replied in confusion.

Mary stared at him a moment before starting to laugh. “No, no, I meant _job_ prospects?”  

“Oh, oh!” John said, rubbing his temple. “Oh, yes. No. That is to say, no, I’ve just been focusing on the competition. Tomorrow?  Trying to stay focused,” he finished gracelessly, suddenly conscious that he has been nodding along with himself the whole time. Mary is still laughing.

John raises the teacup to his lips, but the beverage nearly comes to grief again as his elbow is jostled by a tall man in a pale-coloured three-piece suit. “Oh, pardon me,” the man says, simperingly officious, “my apologies.”

“Mary Morstan, rhythmic gymnastics,” she introduces herself, sticking out her hand.

“Charmed,” the man replied. “I say,” he muses, looking out one of the arched double-height windows onto the courtyard, “isn’t that Princess Anne out there?” Mary’s teacup barely makes it to the buffet table as she dashes for the door, phone in hand.

“The Princess Anne the Princess Royal?” asks John, utterly straight faced.

 _This bloke can get a gold for pissed-off staring_ , John thinks, getting the clear feeling that the man has caught the reference and is Not Amused. “Quite so, Mr. Watson,” is the cool response. John smiled a little to himself and raised the teacup to his lips.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” the man asks suddenly.

“I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him…” John thinks back “ten days ago.”

“Mmm, and since the Opening Ceremony you’ve gone on a beach excursion and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the Closing Ceremony?”

“Who _are_ you?” John gets out from between gritted teeth.

“An interested party,” is the cool response.

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him. How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

John snorts. “And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?” John repeats disbelievingly.

“In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

John looks casually around the crowded party. “Well, thank God you’re above all that.”

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” the man asks authoritatively.

“I could be wrong ... but I think that’s none of your business,” John replies, knuckles white on the saucer.

“It could be,” the man replies, threat implicit.

“It really couldn’t,” said John.

“Well, if you do happen to keep up this…association beyond the Olympiad, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

John looks incredulous. “Why?”

“Because you’re not a wealthy man, and I doubt that you can dance, so that rules out Strictly Come Dancing for you, unlike your friend Miss Morstan.”

John tries to process this. “In exchange for what?”

The man shrugs a little. “Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?” asked John mulishly.

“Once the compulsory drug screens are over, I shall worry about him. Constantly.” He stares down his nose at John, waiting for him to put all the pieces together.

John guffaws. “Him? Have you met him?” _Sherlock Holmes, a drug addict?_

The man smiles lazily before continuing. “I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship.”

 _You’re kidding_ , John thinks, but replies, “No”.

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure,” the man starts again.

“Don’t bother,” said John, raising his teacup to his lips.

The man laughs briefly. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

John rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not. I’m just not interested.”

The man hums. “Well, perhaps I can think of something else that may interest you. Won’t you come and be introduced to my parents?”

John is still re-running that in his brain to understand that conversational twist even as this pompous git is guiding him to an elderly couple standing at the other end of the coffee service.

“Oh, well, if it isn’t John Watson!” the woman exclaims, reaching out to shake his hand, her husband’s replacing it as soon as it is withdrawn (“delightful, delightful!”). “Well, isn’t this exciting! You must call me Violet, of course, and this is Sieger,” she says, pointing to her husband. In their late seventies, they exude that particular type of Britishness that to John seems almost like a fable of long ago; of walking in rainy weather round country estates and nursery teas and getting tipsy on trifle at Christmastime. In the lights of the room their silver hair glows almost halo-like, and Violet shimmers as she moves, the blue, red, and white swirls on her loose coat sparkling a little as she gestures.   

“And this is my oldest son,” Violet continues, pointing at the overbearing dickhead. John nods his head jerkily as the introduction of “Mycroft Holmes” in perfect, plummy diction falls into his brain.

“Holmes?” John says. “As in…?” But John’s question is never formed, dying in his throat as Sherlock’s snapped “Here you are, and I hope you’re grateful” sounds behind him.

John turns and looks at Sherlock; frozen to the spot, gaping a little, incongruously holding two trifles in glass cups in each of his large hands. “John,” he said faintly. “You… look good.”

“Oh! You know each other? Why Sherlock, you sly thing, you never dropped a word! Well, why don’t we sit down, all together?  Just there.” Sherlock flounces off to a cream armchair, which is quite impressive, John considers, given he is still has two handfuls of desserts.

John trails after the little group of Holmeses, taking the only empty place on a loveseat next to Sherlock’s dad. “So, John,” says Violet, settled next to her older son, who is inspecting one of the trifles with great interest, “tell me about this tiebreaking rule in gymnastics?  It seems _very_ strange.”

So John does, only to find Violet must have been studying up on gymnastics as he’s also quizzed about the conduct of the Ukrainians in the team final (outrageous!), the revised scoring system (mathematically more interesting but less pleasing without the perfect 10), and new developments in vaulting (Radivilov: ambition over sense?). Unable to contribute to Violet’s calculation of the joules of kinetic energy Simone Biles must need for the double layout, John steals a sidelong glance at Sherlock. Long legs crossed, one hand languidly propping up his head; he is staring into the trifle cup as if hoping it will develop sentience. John’s attention is brought back into the conversation by Mycroft interrupting it.

“Why are we doing this? We never do this,” he begins petulantly.

“We are here because Sherlock is at the _Olympics_ and we are all _very happy_ ,” his mother says very firmly.

Mycroft looks across at her with an extremely insincere smile. “Oh, am I happy too? I haven’t checked.”

“Behave, Mike,” Violet says firmly. “Now, come with me and get us all some more tea, there’s a good boy”.

“‘Mycroft’ is the name you gave me, if you could _possibly_ struggle all the way to the end,” says Mycroft waspishly as he and his mother head over to the urns.    

Desperately trying not to laugh, John looks over at Sherlock again who is still gazing at the dessert. The trifle-intelligence experiment must not be going well, as there is a tiny smear of cream at the corner of his mouth. John’s tongue licks out unconsciously. 

“John, John, look at this,” Sherlock’s dad says, rummaging around in his pockets. He draws out a closed fist and holds it right in front of John; says “Look” in a voice of trembling excitement.

John looks. There, in a teeny plastic bag, is a small pin, proudly bearing the words ‘British House’ on the background of (of course) a stylized Union Jack.

“Oh!” John said, feeling on firmer ground. “Are you collecting them?”

“Mmm,” replies Sieger, “I’ve got quite a few now. Getting them from volunteers and such when we visit an event, you know. Some of the chaps have got loads, hundreds, even,” he said, managing to sound both wistful and somehow disbelieving.

“Here,” said John, fishing around in the inside pocket of his coat. “Have you got one of these?”

Sieger looks at the pin John has presented. It’s Pride the Lion, the Team GB mascot, doing a handstand on a pommel horse (terrible technique).  Sherlock’s dad seems utterly delighted with it. “OO-oohh!” he exclaims, peering at it closely in John’s hand. “No, that’s a new one!  May I?”

“It’s yours, so I guess so,” John laughs.

Sieger picks up the pin and looks at it fondly. “My wife doesn’t appreciate these like I do, you know,” he says reflectively. “She’s a bit of a genius. I could never bear to argue with her. I’m something of a moron myself. But she’s ...” he trails off, glancing up at Violet who is walking back with cups of tea before leaning back to John, “... unbelievably hot.”

Sherlock is still staring at the trifle, now looking personally affronted that the glass is not big enough to drown himself in. John loses his fight to get his lips under control and attempts to smother his giggle under the back of his hand.

“Enjoying yourself?” Sherlock sneers.

 “It’s _excellent_ ,” replied John, “really good party. I’m seriously fighting an impulse to steal a cushion to commemorate it.”

“Here,” he continued, digging into his jacket pocket again and depositing the proceeds into Sieger’s hand, “take a few more. Go on, you can swap them.”

“Vi, look at what John has given me!” Sieger said, holding up the handful of pins to his wife’s indulgent inspection.

“Good timing,” she said, setting down a cup of tea in front of John. “We’ll be there tomorrow, for your final, of course.”

“O-oh?” said John.

“Oh yes! Wouldn’t miss it,” replies Violet, smiling kindly. “Do you have family coming too?”

John shakes his head from behind the teacup. “No, no. They’ll be watching it on TV,” he said, and hopes that suffices.

Violet tuts. “Oh dear, yes I’m sure they’ll be very excited!  We are terribly lucky to be here with our Sherlock, indeed.” Her youngest son stares up at the ceiling, teacup and saucer in hand.

John feels a clap on his shoulder. “Sorry for interrupting” Lestrade’s voice says above him “but John here has a big day tomorrow.”

John stands up, nods at his suited-up coach. “Yes, I’m so sorry,” he says, genuine. “I can’t take the chance I’ll turn into a pumpkin.” Sherlock looks blank while his parents give a dutiful chuckle.

“This is my coach, Greg Lestrade,” John says, and Greg does the round of handshakes as John names Sherlock’s family. If Lestrade’s handshake seems to be held for a mite longer than usual when he reaches Mycroft, well, there’s nothing to remark on there. And if Mycroft seems to flush a little, well, Greg can bloody well look after himself, grown man that he is.

“I’ll head back too,” Sherlock announces to the group. “Come along, John.”

“Er, I’ll just wait out the front?” John says pointedly. “So you can say goodbye to your family?”  John gets a good luck hug from Violet, a handshake from Sieger, and a nod from Mycroft.

The night air is cool and fragrant as John jumps down the steps, one by one. He squints up at the statue high up on the mountainside, its silhouette recognizable even if the details can’t be made out.

The crunch of gravel makes him turn, and good _Christ_ , Sherlock is beautiful. Tall and willowy, he’s removed the tie from his Olympic suit and the now-open collar of the shirt elongates his neck to swan-like proportions. In the reflected light from the building his skin is so pale as to be almost blue, and John thinks: _I am fucked, fucked, utterly fucked_.

A cab full of people empties out just as Sherlock reaches the driveway, and John silently follows Sherlock in. The driver says “vila Olímpica?” and off they go.  The city is really turning it on, with flags and Olympic symbols on every building as they drive, only slamming to a halt to avoid some clueless tourist who’s stepped out into the middle of the road. John watches, hands on his knees, the bright lights of the city out the window and, sometimes, for a moment, their patterns on Sherlock’s face.   

Sherlock leans forward and says something to the driver, who changes lanes and turns right, and then a short time later they have pulled up in a non-descript looking petrol station. Sherlock bounds out and starts looking at seemingly random features; a big sign advertising sandwiches, the banged up door to the bathroom, some stains on the concrete John doesn’t want to think about too closely.  John, standing by the cab, stretches out and keeps a beady eye on Sherlock as he sticks his head inside the bathroom and takes a look around. Within two minutes he is bouncing back to the cab and telling John he needn’t have got out.

“You going to tell me what that was all about?” said John as the cab pulls back onto the highway.

“No,” said Sherlock, busily texting. “As ever, you see but you do not observe.”

“Some things are hard to see,” John replied.

Sherlock looks over at him, light playing patterns on his face. “Ah,” he says quietly. “You’ve been talking to Mycroft. It’s true what he said.” He pauses, “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes,” says John, startled.

“Did you take it?”

“No!”

Sherlock’s lip quirks as he looks out the window. “Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

John snorts. “Berk,” he says lazily, fatigue beginning to set in.

“Ah!” John exclaims says as something soft thuds into the side of his head. John looks at what’s fallen into his lap. It’s one of the bloody British House Union Jack pillows.

“Where were you stashing that, then?” John demands through his laughter, turning the cushion over in his hands. “Incredible,” he says, looking at Sherlock. “Amazing.”

John removes his jacket and drapes it over his arm and the cushion as they enter the security clearing station at the village’s entrance. John feels pretty proud of that effort and studiously avoids catching Sherlock’s eye until they are safely out of the security building, where he promptly takes out the cushion and whumps Sherlock with it before running off.

“No, no, this is mine now,” John calls as he runs, Sherlock giving chase with his open suit jacket flapping behind him. Sherlock barrels into John’s side but doesn’t break stride before eventually overtaking him, long legs running away from John and out of sight into the building lobby.

John jogs in, jacket still clutched to his chest, only to see Sherlock lounged against the elevator, idly throwing the cushion up and down in the air.

“You utter bastard,” John says in tones of the greatest admiration and respect. Sherlock just smiles and presses the button for the lift.

“Sherlock, I…” John begins as the lift pings for the fifth floor, John sticking his hand out to hold the doors open. “I like your parents,” he volunteers eventually, which is, at least, true. “They seem so…” and he looks at Sherlock, alien and special and wonderful; and continues “…ordinary.”

Sherlock looks at him and gives a little quirk of his mouth. “It’s my cross to bear,” he says, and John smiles again, wide and open.

“Your brother’s a dickhead though.”

Sherlock laughs this time, before taking a quick step forward and thrusts the cushion into John’s chest. “Good luck tomorrow, John,” he says, exquisitely formal.

John wishes Sherlock goodnight as the lift doors obscure him from sight. He tucks the cushion under his arm and heads down to hallway to his door, which is, by a great mercy, sock free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Olympic Hospitality Houses](https://sports.vice.com/en_us/article/olympic-hospitality-houses-are-a-place-to-cry-and-party-during-the-games) are a real thing - hosted by the country, they are place for athletes to hang out with families and guests; and some of them turn into huge parties at nighttime and the public can buy tickets. [British House](https://www.britishhouserio.com/?sdoc=1) was closed to the public however and only available to athletes, families and invited guests. It did host lots of functions like this one, the purpose of which was to foster trade links and attract investment to Britain. [This video](https://youtu.be/Kz-hqyg8RKg) shows how such a function would look and also how the building looks lit up at night (beautiful). This is the room where John and the Holmeses have their chat.  
> 
> 
> The athletes do indeed have a dedicated [formal uniform](http://www.simonjersey.com/blog/simon-jersey-launch-team-gb-formal-wear/) for official functions.  
> 
> 
> For reasons I cannot adequately explain, Princess Anne is one of my favorite royals. An Olympian herself, she has a [long history with the Olympic movement](http://royalcentral.co.uk/blogs/insight/princess-anne-princess-of-the-olympics-68160) and was in Rio this year so it's not too much of a stretch to imagine she'd show up at an official function. After all, she was there for this official photo where she hilariously [nearly got whacked with the flag](http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/andy-murray-princess-anne-flag-olympics-opening-ceremony_uk_57a46323e4b00be64335a99f) by Andy Murray.  
>  There was also this [lovely moment](http://www.stuff.co.nz/sport/olympics/83129799/Fijis-humble-act-to-Princess-Anne-after-winning-sevens-gold-at-the-Rio-Olympics) when she presented the Fiji Rugby Seven's team their gold medals - the country's first ever Olympic medal. The joke John makes is a riff on [this Little Britain sketch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohi98bW8RgA).
> 
> Pins! [ Olympic Pin collecting is a big deal](http://www.smh.com.au/sport/olympics/rio-2016/olympics-off-the-field/rio-olympics-2016-whats-with-the-pins-20160816-gqu6c7.html). Everyone at the games - athletes, media, sponsors, the IOC - has some of their own to hand out and swap. Here's the designs for the [British House pin](http://picclick.co.uk/RIO-Olympics-2016-British-House-Pin-Limited-272331766268.html) and the [GB gymnastics pin](http://www.greatbritishcollectables.com/Team-GB-Pride-Mascot---Gymnastics-Pictogram-Pin/121.htm). 
> 
> As a mathematician, of course Sherlock's mum would be intrigued with the physics of Simone Biles' incredible flip. [It's worth reading a bit more about](https://www.inverse.com/article/19429-2016-rio-olympics-simone-biles-gymnastics-physics-medal).
> 
>  **TOMORROW** We return to Rio Olympic Arena for John's two finals - Pommel Horse and Parallel Bars. Gulp.


	12. August 16th, Rio Olympic Arena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last day of the artistic gymnastics programme: the pommel horse and parallel bars finals. This is what John came here for, but how will he leave?

“And welcome back to the Rio Olympic Arena on this, the climactic day of the artistic gymnastics competition.  You’ll be absolutely bound to the TV screens at home this evening with three gold medals up for grabs, including the competition that’s been made so much of over the build up to these games, the one the audience will be absolutely begging for, and that’s the women’s floor final with the extraordinary Simone Biles.”

“She’s been so dominant here at these games Irene, already picked up three golds and a bronze medal here at Rio and is expected to control the floor today with her signature powerhouse move.   The other gold medals up for grabs this evening are the pommel horse, expected to be a showdown between British teammates John Watson and Bill Murray, and the parallel bars, where John Watson competes amongst a tight field.”

….

“Well keep your feet in front of you, then!”

“My feet are perfectly placed! Your appalling appendages are violating my personal space! Move them over!”

“Boys, _boy_ s,” his mother says with supreme disinterest, “must we separate you again?”

“It was Mycroft!” Sherlock blurts immediately. “His fat feet are taking up too much space.”

“Well, come and swap with your father then,” says Violet, implacable. “You can come and commentate for me.”

“What makes you think I know anything about this sport?” Sherlock mutters as he draws his feet up onto the chair, out of the way of Mycroft’s sprawling legs.

“Your hair, dear,” his mother replies absently. “And your shirt last night, of course.”

……..

“Tight really is the word of the night here Kate, it will certainly be a night to remember. We begin with the parallel bars final, the competitors walking out now. The field is led by top qualifier Sebastian Moran of Ireland, world champion for the last two years in this apparatus. Looking at the rest of the field, we should be paying attention to the two Chinese athletes, Shudi Deng and Hao Yao; as well as German Hans Albers, who all had scores within a fraction of one another during qualifying.”

“And what about the British competitor, John Watson?  What are his chances tonight Irene?”

“Could go either way Kate. Showed strong scores on this apparatus during qualifying and again in the all-around, and he did take the bronze in this event in last year’s world championships in Glasgow. He’s never beaten Moran in competition though, but we’ve seen plenty of thrills in the competition so far, it certainly wouldn’t be the first upset.”

….

“Oh, look, there he is!” Violet sits up in her seat, waving enthusiastically down to John’s blond head below.

As John’s name is called and he steps forward to be introduced to the crowd, Sherlock is quite sure John can’t see them, the bright lights staring down from the ceiling will surely prevent those below from seeing anything in the stands clearly. But he claps anyway. His mother is watching him and it wouldn’t do to displease her again.

……

“And the first competitor tonight Irene is Sebastian Moran – coming up to the apparatus now with his coach, and look at that laser focus. It’s as if he has no nerves at all.”

“Moran taking the silver in the High Bar final just yesterday – and that was a lovely full turn, held very nicely on the one rail – and another full turn – coming into the underswing work, an important part of the routine, he is the only one in the world to be doing that particular underswing there. And there’s the above bar element – and into the dismount – big double front to stick.”

“Oh! What a way to start to start this final!”

“Very impressive – some small wobbles there in the middle but he managed to contain it – very impressive, now he did score a 15.8 in qualifying, so it’ll certainly be the high 15’s here, high start value as well, so the rest of the field will certainly be put on attention.”

“And the scores are in – that’s a 6.9 for difficulty 9 for execution – a total of 15.9, an enormous score. Well, well, Irene, the rest of the field will certainly be quaking after that one.”

….

Sherlock’s eyelids flickered as the next competitor came up to the bar.

Romania: Muntean, Andrei Vasile. Projected score: 15.44.

……

“Well, a 15.6 there for Muntean, with Deng Shudi of China coming up to the bars now. One of your favourite gymnasts, Kate?”

“Well you know how I love variety Irene, and this routine has it in spades. Impressive difficulty too, I’m really looking forward to this routine from the third-highest qualifier.”

…..

This was dreadful. _Intolerable_. His projections were shamefully inaccurate. First the Romanian and then the Russian each scoring over 1.5 points over his calculations. His study had been incomplete. The rulebook had been child’s play to understand (curse his mother for looking at his hair) but he’d had insufficient study of the competitor’s routines (Mrs Hudson confiscating his laptop from the ceiling – curse her twice!). At this rate he would be reduced to finding out the score as the judges posted it, like some sort of, of… _amateur_.

“Oooh! Oh I say!” breathes his father to the accompaniment of a sharp inhale from the crowd at large.

….

“Oh! Irene! A fall on the dismount!”

“Really big surprise there Kate, that had been so beautiful, a small touch of the feet on the bars just before would have been playing on his mind, and that’s a 14.833 for the current world champion, what a _huge_ disappointment.”

“Good news for Moran there, we see him chatting to Watson there, just a waiting game for the Irishman now. It’s amazing how going early as Moran did and giving such a confident performance, can really set the tone of the competition.”

“Three competitors to go, and Hans Albers from Germany coming up to the bars now. We expected him to challenge in the all-around competition when he was forced to withdraw due to a foot injury… this is very good work indeed now…. Perhaps a slight misplace of the hand there…. Big straddle-front somersault moving towards the end of the bar, so nice there…. Here’s the dismount, double-front half turn, very nicely done, looks like a podium routine to me Kate.”

“And it’s a 15.783 for Albers, that’s enough to move him into the silver medal position with two competitors to go.”

….

The atmosphere in the knot of Team GB supporters changes palpably when Albers walks off and John and his coach walk on. Everyone sits up straighter, pays a bit more attention, and they certainly get louder. Phones come out of pockets, tracking John and his coach as the arena lights up their heads – one blond, one silver – and they start to powder up the bars. It is positively mesmeric, Sherlock thinks, the two of them walking along the bar, rubbing handfuls of chalk into its surface. Even Mycroft is not unaffected, Sherlock detecting a change in his breathing rates as they stroke the chalk over the bar’s length.

A few rows in front another familiar blonde head is aiming a phone, fingers splayed on the screen to zoom it in. Mary is here. Sherlock swallows down the bile that rises; after all, the zoom on her phone is quite good.

Sherlock observes John carefully. His biceps are covered by protective elastic sheaths that cling tightly to the muscle, the ring and index fingers of his right hand are taped together. Hair looking flat, but some product in it.  He looks small, Sherlock thinks suddenly, smaller even than the other gymnasts as the coach moves up the little springboard to help John get onto the bars.

John squeezes honey onto his hands and applies more chalk to them, brushing it off, patting it on and brushing it off again. He stands up, salutes the judges, and walks on to the springboard.

….

“Well, Irene, Watson beginning now, pushed so hard in the all-around to come away with the bronze, let’s see what he can do.”

“Just a little softness in the back on that handstand there… slight wobble but managed to perform the Heely from one bar… high tipout moving to the ends of the bars, such a difficult manoeuver, huge flight above the bars that was executed very well. This is not the same routine we’ve seen earlier in these games, Kate, this has got some new difficulty elements added in, he’s really going for it here.”

….

Sherlock stares down at John, blue-clad legs swinging. The muscles in John’s arms and back tremble as he swings through, under and on top of the bars, legs extending in a perfect, graceful handstand; holds it for one, two seconds. It is not the same routine as he had watched John do on the TV back at the village. John’s feet fall, perfectly together, and his whole body follows through with the motion, body right above the bars and feet pointed to the stadium roof. This bit Sherlock knows, this part builds the momentum for the dismount.

…..

“And the double front half there for the dismount, Kate, and look at the height on that, textbook dismount, and Kate, that might be enough. Some deductions there certainly in some of those handstands but that was a much more difficult routine than we’ve seen from Watson I think ever, he’s certainly pulled that one right out of his hat.”

…..

Sherlock’s legs cross and uncross while he waits for the score to flash up, foot beating out a staccato rhythm on the air. The crowd is noisy, so _noisy_ , they know it was good, Sherlock _knows_ it was good too but he can’t _think_ because of the noise and the flags waving and the muscles and the John! and he’s only just gone and done it, 16.041 and that’s it, the Cuban after this will never score that highly, John Watson is a gold medal winner and Sherlock can _see_ his face all creased up with joy and shock and he’s done it and Mary and the Irish and the rest of them can all go _jump_ because that is _his_ John, his _friend_ , who thinks Sherlock is clever and laughs and likes his parents and he’s a champion at the _Olympics_ and who is that making that sound and oh, it’s me.

….

“God, Mycroft, couldn’t you have organized this better?” Sherlock says idly as they wait for their parents, who have disappeared in the coffee queue, leaving them strict instructions not to move.

“Well, when people won’t listen to my friendly advice, what am I to do?” replied Mycroft, not looking up from his phone.

Sherlock sighs. The sun moves inexorably through the sky.

“Oh my, would you look at that,” Mycroft says in an utterly unsurprised tone, holding his phone up for Sherlock’s inspection.  “Footage of Ryan Lochte vandalizing a petrol station has come to light, how interesting.”

“Quite,” replies Sherlock, eyes flicking to the phone and then back to the snaking queues that have claimed his parents.

“Your friend has done well, hasn’t he?”

“Quite well, yes,” Sherlock replies with an equanimity he’s very proud of.

Mycroft makes a humming sound. “Sure to be a big sensation back at home, don’t you think? Young man, very handsome, Britain’s first ever gymnastics gold medal, goodness me he might even make it two, he’d be a ‘hot property’, don’t you think?”

“Just spit it out Mycroft, whatever it is you’re thinking. There’s enough drama here without you adding to it.”

“Oh, just thinking, a man like that would have to be very careful with his private life, dependent on sponsors and whatnot. Nothing scandalous, nothing… _exceptional_.”

Sherlock stares straight ahead.

“Ah, boys, excellent, I’ve got the coffees, let’s go in now before it starts again,” bustled Violet, huge sunhat flopping as she moves, tray of coffees in hand and a bottle of water tucked under one arm.

“But where’s Father?” queried Mycroft.

She turns around, just noticing for the first time that Sieger is not bringing up the rear. “Those bloody pins!”

………

“Good evening viewers and it’s great to be with you again as we come to you with the final artistic gymnastics event of the day, of these games in fact, it’s the pommel horse final. It’s already been an outstanding day here for Great Britain, John Watson taking a surprise gold in the parallel bars less than two hours ago, and Amy Tinkler taking a bronze in the women’s floor final later on.

It’s been an absolutely outstanding competition thus far, we’ve seen history being made here; Simone Biles really the story at Rio – taking her fourth gold medal this afternoon, an extraordinary games for the nineteen year old American. And history for Great Britain – certainly our most successful gymnastics team ever, and still this event to come, the pommel horse arguably being Watson’s pet apparatus.”

 “That it is, Kate. The possibility here for Great Britain to go one-two on the podium, Bill Murray, Watson’s long-time training partner, is a strong contender; you could even argue the stronger after Watson had a fall during the team final. These two were gold-silver at the World Championships earlier this year, certainly all of Britain will be watching to see if they can do it again.”

……

It’s peculiar to Sherlock how tense the atmosphere is; how much he feels it, how involved he actually is. How much he wonders about what John must be feeling, looking at him pacing and stretching down on the side of the floor as his horrible roommate, the one with the awful girls, sits hunched over with a towel over his head, staring at the floor.

The horrible roommate had done well. 15.833. Very well. But John could do better, he had scored higher.

….

It’s weird. The whole day is absolutely, totally, mind-fuckingly weird. The parallel bars final was weird. The teary voice mail from Harry in rehab was weird. Teary Lestrade going “C’mere, it’s a hugs bust!” was really weird.  It was weird jogging around the little warm-up area at the back of the arena because there wasn’t enough time to leave and come back again and he needed to stay warm for the pommel final. It was weird when Bill stuttered out that he was sorry for being a dickhead and that he didn’t want to lose but if he did, there was no one he’d rather lose to than John.

And now, here he was walking out again for the second time that day, having done this not even two hours ago. He blinks at the jacket in front of him, the letters on it swimming and running into each other.

And so they walk out and John stands behind the podium and looks over at Bill as he receives his medal and that’s weird. And out there in the crowd somewhere, watching him, cheering for him, is Sherlock and his family and that’s weird too, it’s so good and John loves it but so weird. And Sherlock is just a whole bundle of weird, when you think about, but that’s good too and John waves at the crowd and hopes Sherlock can see him.

And then he’s standing up and bending down, and getting another one of those weird statues, and standing up again looking down at the gold medal, another one, and it’s so weird and strange and unreal but also true. So odd, so strange, so happy, that this is it, that’s it’s all said and done; that today he did about 3 minutes of gymnastics and now he has two gold medals and that’s just weird? And then they’re playing God Save the Queen and he gestures to Bill who looks a bit abashed but he stands up next to him and his face hurts from smiling and he’s crying a bit and it’s all victorious, happy and glorious; and too fucking right it is, it absolutely is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John! John my boy YOU DID IT!!!
> 
> Here's the [official replay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qel-dXUsozw) of the real parallel bars final (although only the medal-winning routines which is a shame). 
> 
> It was a bit harder to find official footage of the pommel horse final, but in [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DoEQ-CLNP8&t=181s) you can see Max Whitlock's gold-medal routine starting from 0:47. It is amazing, and watch the coach getting excited at the end of the routine when he knows Max has nailed it. This was the routine in my mind for John.  
> 
> 
> The uniform the gymnasts wear for these events look like one piece but they're actually a leotard, stirrup tights and socks. Over at Cosmo, they have a [legitimately interesting](http://www.cosmopolitan.com/style-beauty/fashion/a62618/mens-gymnastics-uniforms/) interview with the woman who designs the uniforms. It's accompanied by plenty of images and gushing text, as if you couldn't guess.
> 
> The [queues for food](http://www.smh.com.au/sport/olympics/rio-2016/rio-olympics-organisers-promise-improvements-after-day-1-hassles-20160807-gqn59j.html) claimed more victims than just Sherlock's folks.
> 
> As much as I love it, the line "It's a hugs bust!" isn't mine. Many thanks to its creator for permission to use it, and please behold the wonder that is ['"It's a hugs bust": the t-shirt'](https://www.redbubble.com/people/mcjean22/works/10572557-hugs-bust).  
> 
> 
>  **TOMORROW** Hope you've still got your reading shoes handy, because tomorrow marks the qualification day of the men's and women's rhythmic gymnastics competition.


	13. August 17th, BBC Broadcasting Centre, Rio de Janeiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shows off his medals to the media, before running back to the Arena to try and see some of Sherlock's qualifier. How will Sherlock fare? And will what happens afterwards change everything between them?

John gulps the glass of water, sweating buckets out on the balcony under the sun and the TV lights.

“Righto, ready?” says the host, cheerily, and he hastily puts the glass down at his feet. Hopefully this interview is winding up. His brain is having a tough time thinking of different ways to say “I’m very pleased.” _How can it possibly take so long to do this?  Please, let it be over._

“Well, John, amazing footage there of your historic two gold medals from yesterday, how does it feel watching that?”

John assumes he is meant to pretend to have seen the footage. “It’s quite surreal, actually. It’s all just a great surprise, I still can’t really believe it,” he answers.

“Right, it must be, yes,” says Connie, who is clearly also following the ‘say the same thing three different ways, it takes longer’ theory.   “With your competition over now, what are you planning for the rest of the games?  Will you be checking out some of the other events?”

“Yes,” says John, caught slightly off guard. “In fact, I’ll be seeing some of the rhythmic gymnastics qualification today if I make it back over there in time.” Connie laughs like John pointing at the Arena, clearly visible from the balcony, was a funny joke.

“Ah yes, it’s the first time male rhythmic gymnastics has been in the Olympic games, and Sherlock Holmes will be hoping to qualify for Britain today!”

Connie looks expectantly at John. “Yes,” he agrees. And then feeling like he should say something else: “It should be very exciting.”

“Of course rhythmic gymnastics all in uproar after the attack on Sarah Sawyer a few days ago, she’s a friend of yours, John? How’s she holding up?”

“Er, yes, we used to train together before she changed disciplines.” John tries to remember what the gymnastics head had told him to say in case he was asked this very question. “But she’s doing well and in good spirits, she’s focused on her job right now and hopefully she’ll be ok for tomorrow.” He gets it, more or less, and hopefully it sounds natural. He smiles brightly at Connie. _Please let this be over_.

“Wonderful. Well John, congratulations again on your success here at Rio, thanks for talking with us today.”

 John nods and smiles, and keeps smiling until the cameraman sticks his head out and tells them it’s clear. John exhales and downs the rest of the water.

“Thanks, mate, lovely stuff, we couldn’t get a photo, could we?” Getting out from the building is a maze of tiny corridors and selfies with BBC staff that John feels like he can’t refuse. Lestrade is no help, hungover as shit, wandering round with a paper cup of coffee and peeking into the rooms full of cables, computers and complexity.  Then he berates John for looking a bit uptight.

“Yeah, well, I want to see Sherlock’s qualifier, and we’ve already missed half of it,” says John with forced calm, holding up his medals so they get into someone’s selfie.

“Oh, bugger,” says Lestrade, face falling. John looks at his coach as he thinks, brain clearly as fuzzy as his face. “Oh,” he says again, before his face suddenly reassembles into something approaching normal. “Righto,” Lestrade barks, wincing; “coming through!” and marches John out of the building.

…..

### Rio Olympic Arena

John stares speechlessly at the ticketing official, who after having denied them entry, has now requested a selfie. Very apologetically denied, what with the qualifications being underway at that very moment and all; so that they cannot possibly enter until there is a scheduled break, which unfortunately will be after the fourth and final rotation.  

“C’mon, we’ll go round the back,” Lestrade mutters, dragging John away, which seems like an excellent idea. The guard doesn’t let them in to the backstage area itself where the athletes would be waiting, but rather into a small holding area that just has some rows of hard-looking plastic chairs and precious little else. Then, suddenly, it seems like a bad idea. Lestrade sinks down on the floor, pressing a bottle of water he’s managed to find against his forehead.

John sits down on one of the awful plastic chairs and scrubs his hands through his hair, listening to the faint music coming from the performance. _What a fuckup_.

Lestrade sighs and fumbles in his pocket before waving his phone at John. “BBC app - data charge’ll kill me, but I can’t be having with your sad face,” Lestrade says into his knees; but John is already navigating his way to the live stream of today’s events.

Some bloke in black leggings rewards John’s stubby-fingered screen poking. It’s not Sherlock; but John watches it attentively, hunched over the tiny screen. The man walks off the floor at the end of his routine and there’s a few replays before it cuts to the kiss ‘n’ cry where the athlete and his coach sit and wait for the scores to come in. It looks awful - at least in the artistic world you can jump around, hide your face and run if you have to; rather than staring straight down the camera while you wait to hear how badly you cocked it up.

The scores flash up for this guy (from Cyprus) and it’s then John realizes he has no idea of where Sherlock is placed or even how far along the competition is, other than the start time was a few hours ago. There’s a ‘14’ that flashes up next to the guy’s score, but what is that?  Is he the 14th routine? Or has he come 14th? But out of how many?   John gets the impression from Sherlock the number of competitors is small, certainly much smaller than in artistic gymnastics. John sucks on his bottom lip, ignoring Lestrade’s quiet whimpers from the floor.

….

Sherlock holds his robe around him and strives for haughty, detached, above it all. The competitors are all together one backstage holding area: stretching, getting changed (there’s a lot of dance belt and buttock on display), staring at the one TV showing the other competitors, or like Sherlock, trying hard to look inscrutable and intimidating.

It would be funny, he thinks, all of them doing their macho posturing in sequined unitards, except that there’s so much at stake. Many of these men have fought for the sport’s inclusion at the games, fought against what it means to do a ‘girly’ sport, fought to get resources and funding, and fought against the gymnastics establishment for the right to be here. There is so much riding on this for the fledgling sport and no-one wants to be the one to fuck it up. _Not like you did with the rope routine_ , his brain sneers unhelpfully.   

“Stop thinking about it, Sherlock,” chides Mrs Hudson with uncanny accuracy. “You can’t do anything about it now, can you dear?  Try to think of something calming. Something that makes you happy.”

“Do shut up, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock spits and regrets this entire idea. Why on earth did he think this would be better than rehab? What had he been thinking?  _Well, you were on drugs at the time_. _And the ballet wouldn’t have taken you back, so_.

He sighs, sits down cross legged on the floor, arranges his warm robe about himself, and opens the door to his mind palace. On the bottom left hand side of the hallway is an elegant display stand; mahogany, Queen Anne legs. On it rests a collection of little glass objects not unlike snowdomes. He picks up one; turns it over. A clear blue bay sheltered by high white cliffs is there; the aroma of pine trees floats up around him. After looking at it a moment, he puts it down; picks up another, bigger than the rest. In this one, a wide blue sea stretches out to meet a distant horizon, only interrupted by a golden body in the waves. It smells like cheap sunscreen and mint ice-creams. He brings it up to eye level and looks in.

…….

John glances at the screen only to jerk upright as he sees a familiar tall figure striding out to the floor carrying a red hoop. _Fuck! Fuck!!!_   John grabs the phone from where it’s dropped to the floor and looks at it, the picture up reorienting itself helpfully.

John looks at the tiny Sherlock on screen; confident and poised. His outfit is a dark charcoal, almost black, with a block of blue on the chest, a thin red pinstripe detail separating the two dark colours. He looks impossibly tall and slim, one long line with his hair slicked back in an unforgiving style.

John balances his elbows on his knees and gazes at the phone as Sherlock assumes a position on tip-toe at the edge of the floor, one arm crossed across his body, the other holding a red hoop at his side.

……

Four routines; clubs, ball, rope, and hoop. Eight difficulty elements; of which one must be performed with the left hand. The choreography must cover the entire floor and contain a balanced choice of the groups of elements including jumps, leaps, pivots, balances and flexibility movements. The body must be aligned, with toes pointed and knees straight. The apparatus must be held properly and caught with precision. When it’s all written down, boiled down to the component ‘musts,’ it seems so straightforward, so obvious. But nothing is so deceptive as an obvious fact.

It is, however, a fact that in sport that you only get one chance. That is its fascination, and its agony.  You show up at the predetermined time and place and do what you can on the day, and hope that it’s enough. The years of training, the tedious months of saying no to chips and cigarettes and cocaine, the countless hours on the floor; they all funnel down to 90 seconds in front of a judging panel who look at you and give you points. If the hoop rolls away, there’s no second chances, no ‘best of three;’ you just lose. There is no doubt, in the end.

……

John feels as if he might rip his face off before the qualifier is over. As Sherlock stared at the camera in the kiss ‘n’ cry, his scores, all four of them, had flashed up on the screen with a ‘6’ next to his name. _You beauty!_ , John had thought, exultant.  The camera had cutaway to the British supporters in the stand, and John laughed at the screen – the Holmes’ were out in patriotic force, brandishing flags and cheering. Even Mycroft was getting in on it, nursing a stuffed lion in his lap, though still wearing a three-piece suit, John noticed.  

Then John found out that the number next to the name does indeed represent the qualifying position, as the very next person who went after Sherlock also had the ‘6’ flash up next to his name.  John chewed on his lip. The camera cut to the next group of supporters, and there, sitting just at the edge of the Team France group, was Victor Fucking Trevor. John’s lip only just survived intact.

So that was all a bit nail-biting. Nerve-wracking, even.

It must be getting close to the end of the qualifying session. Hopeful and nervous competitors are beginning to come in, filling up John’s little anteroom; the women’s qualifying rounds start immediately after this. John hunches over the phone and stares at it ferociously, doing his best to ignore the slowly building volume.

The low buzz in the room stills momentarily and then returns, redoubling in volume, the chatter of a dozen different languages. Despite himself John looks up; his hand is up in a half-wave before he knows what he’s doing. It’s the Team GB contingent – Mary, and Sarah.

 “So how many to go?”

“Dunno.”

“And you reckon he’s eighth now?”

“Yep.”

“Tense, isn’t it?”

John stares determinedly ahead, blinking. It’s only because Mary is his teammate and this is her qualifying session coming up that he hasn’t told her to shut it, already. She’s leaning over the back of his chair, and between her and Sarah, who’s jostling next to him to look at the phone; the nose-twitching smell of their hairspray; and the hideous uncertainty of just how many competitors there are to go, how many could knock Sherlock out of the finals; Mary’s inane commentary is certainly not helping his lips (or his gritted teeth) survive the qualification round.

“What’s wrong with him?” is Mary’s next line, looking down on Lestrade, who’s still trying to achieve a state of oneness with the carpet.

John doesn’t answer, instead focusing all his energy on subliminally willing the bloke on the screen to drop the ball.

…..

The relief of it is like a high; the ecstasy of it is painful in its intensity. Everything is brighter, better; a shining moment of clarity where the world becomes ordered and still. Weightless and unbound, you could jump higher; spin faster; finish stronger. And just like a high, it doesn’t last; because tomorrow you have to do it all again.

……

John is giddy from it. Selfie? Have a bunch of selfies! Look what I’ve got in my pocket! It’s a gold medal! Two of ‘em! Wear it for the photo!  Another one! Who wants one? Group shot!

There are about 20 beautiful, leggy girls arrayed behind him, piled into shot, manicured hands reaching for his chest to touch a gold medal, smiling for the camera as John mugs for it, front and centre. A knot of phone-wielding coaches and support staff jostle in front for the best position, flashes going mad. “Go ahead, make my day,” John croons to the group of happy-snapping matrons before flashing his widest, most charming smile.

“Sherlock!” cries Mary from behind John. “Congratulations!”

Sherlock has paused in the hallway, looking in at the scene – it’s a bit of miracle Mary managed to spot him at all, really. “Sherlock!” John echoes, beckoning the taller man into the room, “you did it!”

Sherlock looks undecided, but his coach, Mrs. Hudson pushes past him in the hallway and begins enthusiastically hugging some of the women’s coaches, bestowing plentiful cheek-kisses and excited shrieking in some Slavic tongue; leaving him little option but to step inside the doorway and wait. The group photo is still underway, those coaches who weren’t pushy enough (or distracted by Mrs. Hudson) now getting their chance to capture John’s pearly whites.

John looks over at Sherlock a moment. He looks wrecked; leaning up against the wall with his eyes closed and curls starting to reassert themselves from the hair gel. Mrs. Hudson is still nattering away as the photo group breaks up (“Vin buv strachenyy, Kateryna! Take polehshennya!”).

John wiggles out from the group and darts through the crowded room to Sherlock, whose eyes startle open as John grabs his triceps. “Sherlock! You did it! Amazing!”

“Yes, great job!” chirps in Mary, just behind him. “Hopefully we can go three from three, eh?” she said, smiling at the little group of Team GB jerseys.

“Hopefully,” says Sarah, tightly. “Wish us luck, boys, we’re going in.”

John removes his arms from Sherlock to wrap them around Sarah, rubbing her back as he murmurs encouragements into her ear.  

He draws back a little, smiles at her. “You got this, yeah?  You’ll be fine, you’ll do amazing.”

Sarah nods, all business and heads off down the hallway, her coach in tow.

“Yes, here we go!” says Mary, stepping into John’s embrace. “Give us a kiss for luck!” she chirps.

John places a quick good-humoured kiss on her cheek and steps back. “Go on, bring on the great!” John says, quoting the Team GB motto to his teammate.

John steps back, smiling up at the wall. Wait, what?

John sticks his head out into the hallway, where Sherlock’s tall figure is shoving the double doors open, flooding the hallway with light. “Oi, Sherlock!” John calls to his retreating figure.

“Uh, John?” Mary has stuck her head out into the hallway, looking at John. “Your coach?”

Swearing under his breath, John ducks back into the anteroom and crosses the floor to Lestrade, who is at least, sitting up, head against the wall. “Move it, you,” John commands. Lestrade grunts.

“C’mon,” says John, toeing his coach’s leg. “If you’re quick, the Holmes’s will still be outside,” says John, who, though a sportsman, is not above the occasional dirty trick.  Lestrade cracks an eye open, eyeballs John for a moment before making vague efforts at movement.

Snorting, John reaches down, grabs a hold of Lestrade’s elbows and hauls him unceremoniously vertical. Lestrade staggers, braces himself on the wall and lets out a ‘ _fuck_ ’ of pure suffering.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” says John, ignoring all the evidence, and strides out of the room and down the hall.

The glare outside is half-blinding, the bright sun reflecting off yards of pale concrete. Hand shading his face, John squints out into the park; but there is no Sherlock to be seen. _Shit._ Could Sherlock be heading ‘round the front, to meet his family as they come out? No, surely not, he’d be annoyed by the crowds. Maybe he’d go ‘round to the buses, go straight back to the village?   He wouldn’t go back without his coach, though, surely – that’d be astronomically rude, even for Sherlock.

Choice made, John jogs around the rear of the stadium, eyes peeled for a Team GB uniform, but luck is not with him. Just empty concrete. “Fuck,” John mutters mulishly, kicking a demountable trailer parked up against the stadium wall for good measure. Its sheet metal sides send out a satisfying reverberation of sound, but the impact on his toe is less gratifying. “Ow, fuck!” he says again, this time with a grunt of pain.

_Bloody Sherlock_ , he thinks, leaning his forehead against unpleasantly warm metal. _Maybe I should just read the signs of the universe and leave this one alone_. He looks up at the blue Rio sky and notices something red on top of the trailer’s roof. A very vibrant, very familiar shade of red, in fact. _Oh, bugger._

John glances around surreptitiously. _Just like a vault. Kinda_.  He backs up a few yards and runs at the trailer wall, planting the balls of his feet against the wall and using the momentum to carry him up, up to grab at the thin rim at the trailer’s corner and hauling himself up and over. _Too easy_.

With a sinking feeling, he turns over the red thing he’d seen from the ground, to see the embroidered ‘Team GB’ winking up at him. He looks at the tag on it, but knows before he sees the name inscribed on the luggage tag, that it belongs to one tall, gorgeous, but possibly very stupid, male rhythmic gymnast.

“Sherlock!!” John calls out, anxious now. “Sherlock!”

There’s no response but a small flash of movement from the stadium’s roof, amongst the air conditioning units and piping. “Sherlock!” John screams again.

John darts to and fro on the roof of the trailer, but the only way up looms sheer and smooth before him. There’s only the width of the trailer for a run-up, two and a half metres at the most.  Even John, with his short legs, covers it in two bounds before he’s hurling himself at the wall, pushing off the walls surface with one foot, then one foot and one hand, before his left hand comes up to scrabble desperately at the roof ledge. The muscle memory saves him, the hours and hours of bodyweight training kicking in and he is up and over the edge, shoulder muscles howling as he flops face first onto the roof, thinking, _fuck me, I just ran up a wall_.

What happens next is a jarringly painful blow to his thigh, sending his legs spinning out into the air and he is slowly falling, fingers desperately grabbing for a hold once again as he slides over the edge. The shock of his legs smacking into the wall nearly undoes him, the air leaving his chest as his stomach scrapes over the ledge.

All at once gravity is not his enemy, a hand is clutched in his hoodie and is pulling him back up onto the roof. He scrabbles, finally able to brace his foot against the wall and heave up, one elbow at a time; grazed stomach; left knee, right knee.

Sherlock is before him, back to John, grappling with a black-clad assailant. With a graceful pivot of his hips, Sherlock’s lower body swings out to the left, and John suddenly realizes that his view of the assailant’s legs are clear. He scuttles forward on hands and knees and careens headlong into the unknown man’s knees, bearing him down with an ‘oomph!’ to the ground.

Sherlock is frantically looking about, yelling something to John, who pushes himself up onto his hands only to have the attacker’s thrashing foot connect with the top of his head and John’s back is on the concrete.

He turns groggily to his left. Sherlock and the man are circling around a large air-conditioning unit. There is talking, but the words arrive slowly to John’s ears. The black-clad man makes a sudden feint left and John notices a metallic flash in his hand; John’s brain sluggishly registers _knife_.

John bellows, still on the ground; the man turns; and Sherlock is up on the aircon unit with his hands around the attacker’s wrist; grappling for control of the weapon.  The attacker jerks back, and Sherlock, still holding on, kicks out, teetering on the aircon unit as the man in black reels.

John pushes himself up onto his knees, watching them swim in front of his eyes. He is swaying, staggering to Sherlock; but the man in black is pushing up onto the aircon unit, head catching Sherlock in the stomach and they go over the side and out of John’s line of sight.   

“Sherlock!” breaks from John’s lips like a prayer as he clambers up on to the unit. Sherlock’s attacker is standing, back to John and gazing down at a horribly still Sherlock. John unflinchingly kicks out, catching the man in the side; he doubles over, wheezing.  John kicks out again, and this time there’s a sickening crunch as the man’s jaw and John’s foot make contact and the man drops bonelessly to the ground.

 “Oh Sherlock, Sherlock,” John babbles, knees at his head, and Sherlock feels John’s stubby fingers at his neck, taking his pulse. He lets out a groan; and is rewarded by John’s fingers running through his hair, gentle pressure on his scalp, an accompanying hymn of “oh God, oh God, _Sherlock._ ” It’s all rather interesting, and then his lungs remind him there’s insufficient air and he is gasping, sucking in air and retching.

“Oh, shit,” says John, who grabs him by the shoulder and rolls him into the recovery position, rubbing Sherlock’s back as he sucks down lungfuls of air and coughs.  “It’s OK,” John says, at least half to himself, “you’re just winded,” and then more businesslike: “did you lose consciousness?”

He shakes his head between his hands, no, and coughs. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?” John asks, face close to his, perhaps unwisely close if he really suspects Sherlock is going to vomit. “No,” Sherlock croaks out. John reaches out and cups Sherlock’s face in one hand, gently turns him so that Sherlock is staring into John’s blue, blue eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Sherlock frowns at the fingers. “Two.”

The hand drops away. John’s eyes are really very blue, very blue indeed, Sherlock notes. One eye is harder to see, of course, because one side of John’s face has tensed up a little and the brow is coming down, and John’s face also has a little lopsided smile, and smiling is good; but with the brow and the smile it is all coming together on John’s face in a way that is in fact, looking decidedly _not good_ ; and oh-

“Sherlock,” John begins, voice carefully modulated, “what the fuck?”

Sherlock rubs his scalp, where John’s hands had checked him for injury just moments ago, and gestures to the unconscious body next to him as he winces himself up into a sitting position. “It’s the attacker, John.”

“I know it’s the bloody attacker, Sherlock!” John explodes. “I was bloody attacked!”

Sherlock is silent.

“What I mean is, what are you doing on the roof, by _yourself_ , getting _attacked_? You couldn’t wait, eh?” He carries on, “You couldn’t wait five minutes and have someone with you, because oh no, I’m Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!” spits John.

“John,” Sherlock coughs, then tries again. “John,” he said, a bit steadier, “I’ve always worked alone. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

“No, _friends_ protect people. Alone gets you stabbed on a fucking rooftop, you utter _moron_!” John cries, voice steadily rising.

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock spits.

John rears back as if struck, and stares at Sherlock for a moment. “Naaah,” he says eventually, carefully getting to his feet. “Wonder why?”

John marches away, to the roof’s edge, fist clenching and unclenching by his side.  He is staring out at horizon when Sherlock approaches him warily. “How did you get up here, anyway?” John asks, eyes straight ahead.

“There’s a service ladder over the other side,” Sherlock replies.

“Oh” John responds, and there is a world of suppressed emotion in that small syllable.  Sherlock peers down at the trailer roof so far below and then looks down at John’s shoes. Incredible.

“It looks higher from up here,” says John, his voice strangled. Sherlock, not knowing what to say, says nothing.

“So it was Moran, was it?” John says eventually.

“Yes,” says Sherlock, “but also No.”

John jerks his head back towards the sprawled body. “So what are we going to do with him?”

 Sherlock looks down at the ground. “There’s some bins down there. They’ll break his fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [the beeb's home](http://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-36947013) during Rio. 
> 
> John does a nice job, but my favourite interviews of the games were with 20 year old Chinese swimmer, Fu Yuanhui. In her interviews she talked about "using her mystic energy" then did a live stream where she [ate cupcakes and burped](http://qz.com/755771/chinas-athlete-of-the-moment-burped-and-ate-cupcakes-during-a-live-stream-with-10-million-fans/). Then she [found out she'd won bronze during the post-race interview](http://www.dailystar.co.uk/news/latest-news/536718/Chinese-Olympic-swimmer-Fu-Yuanhi-bronze-medal-Rio-de-Janeiro-2016) (she thought she'd come fourth) and gave new meaning to ['adorkable'](http://www.huffingtonpost.com.au/entry/fu-yuanhui-olympics_us_57aa0ecae4b0ba7ed23da025) during the presentation. AND THEN after her 4x100M medley team narrowly missed out on a bronze medal, she gave an interview where she discussed the [impact of her period on her performance](http://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/17/world/asia/china-fu-yuanhui-period-olympics.html?_r=0). This would be news in a western country, let alone in China where this is still taboo and tampons are widely (and incorrectly) believed that they can rob a woman of her virginity (according to the linked article). Fu Yuanhui, you're a fucken' legend!  
> 
> 
> Let's talk Rhythmic Gymnastics (RG)! At the Olympics it is only one of two sports competed only by one gender (the other is synchronised swimming), and they are both women's sports. The athletes complete four routines each with different apparatus: hoop, ball, ribbon, and clubs. In lower levels they also compete with the rope. [Points are awarded](http://www.rgalberta.com/bulletins/How%20Rhythmic%20Gymnastics%20is%20Judged.pdf) for difficulty of movements as well as artistic interpretation (music, how the apparatus is moved, etc). They really do have a kiss n' cry area where they have to wait to get the scores (like figure skating in the winter olympics). It looks awful.  
> 
> 
> [Male RG is a thing](http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/milena-popova/where-are-the-male-rhythm_b_1764398.html) although it's not formally recognised by the FIG (the international gymnastics governing body). It is very popular in Japan, where there are over 1000 professional male rhythmic gymnasts who perform [hugely impressive group routines](https://www.youtube.com/user/MenRgJpn/videos) without apparatus, as well as individual routines with apparatus (two hoops, clubs, and stick). There are some men that compete with the same apparatus as women, mainly in France and Spain. The Spanish gymnastics governing body has a division for men in the RG competition where it's dominated by Rubén Orihuela (below + [videos](https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=ruben+orihuela)). So, despite [interest from Russia](http://www.denverpost.com/2015/08/19/russia-pushes-to-add-mens-rhythmic-gymnastics-to-olympics/) in including male RG in international competition (i.e. they want more medals), the FIG doesn't seem keen to do it - you can make up your own minds as to why, but to me, I think of the FIG discussing it very like [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ty8Cshix4s0) from the classic sports film, Blades of Glory. In this story, Sherlock's competition consists of a ball, hoop, clubs and rope routine, so it is a similar aesthetic to the women's competition as I felt that fit best with his ballet background (I am a sucker for ballet!lock).  
> 
> 
> Here's the stadium (while construction was still underway). You can see the aircon units :)  
> 
> 
> **TOMORROW** It's the Rhythmic Gymnastics finals. Have a cup of tea handy folks, it's about to happen.


	14. August 18th, Rio Olympic Arena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack on Sherlock leaves us all with more unanswered questions. Why? How? And who was behind it all? But besides all that, it's the Rhythmic Gymnastics finals. How will Sarah and Mary perform? How will Sherlock perform? And more importantly, after the events of yesterday, will John be in the audience to see?

John does not let him throw Moran off the roof and on to the bins. Pity, really.

Still, the inconvenience was nothing compared to having to deal with the police sergeant (adulterer, bad dancer, fish stew for lunch) until Mycroft had shown up, late as usual, and did whatever it was he does that makes them let Sherlock out of jail cells.

He had been crammed into in a taxi with John’s thoughtful-looking coach; a Not Impressed Mrs Hudson; and John, who was carrying on about being threatened will trespass charges, but that was nothing; Mycroft would fix all that.

And then John had stormed off into the building with not even a backward glance and Mrs Hudson had wittered on about having a little domestic in the elevator and upon reflection it occurs to him that that is, perhaps, what has happened.

So here he is, bright and early, looking at John’s door, standing resolutely in one spot so as to avoid oscillation.

His knock is answered by John’s roommate, the one who John (ever so satisfyingly) beat in the pommel horse final. Bill looks at Sherlock for a long moment, then steps back and opens the door.   

Sherlock’s attempt to sweep into the small room is for naught though; John is not there. Instead there is another of John’s team-mates, the round-faced one, spread out on the couch in pants and t-shirt. Mike.

“John’s just in the shower,” says Bill, lightly. “Tea?”

Sherlock shakes his head and stands stiffly by the balcony.

Mike fumbles around the cushions for his tracksuit bottoms. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “Anderson managed to pull last night and I don’t want to be anywhere near that. Cheers,” he yawns, reaching for the cup of tea Bill hands him. “Been lucky so far though. He’s been pretty quiet, really.”

“Takes more than one basketballer to make a three-continents,” Bill agrees. “You need a swimmer at least.”

“No basketballer, it was Sally,” Sherlock says, to horrified stares. “Saw her last night.  She’s wearing his deodorant.”

Mike rubs his face. “Jesus Christ. Hey, Sherlock, isn’t it your event today?”

He nods. He feels the unasked ‘so what are you doing here, then?’ hang heavy in the air.

“Bit of a domestic last night, was it? John was in a right strop when he got in,” says Bill, deciding to add to the tension.

Sherlock stares out the window, feels the beginning of a dull flush creep up his neck. “No,” he says tightly.

“Mmm-hmm,” Bill replies. “Hey, Mike, do you remember a Greek bird, sailing or something, from the Beijing games?  Bailed me up in the cafeteria when she saw the uniform, wanting to know if Johnny was here again. Half his luck, I thought.”

Sherlock swallows and looks out at the eddies and swirls of the people below, the Olympic village going about its business.

“Nah,” replies Mike, “From Beijing I mostly remember John’s boxer. I was sleeping on the couch for the last three days of the games, bastard. Cuban, I think.”

Sherlock turns to look at Mike; his voice is strange, deliberate. Mike is looking right at him.   

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks. John stands in the entrance to the room, boxer briefs low on his hips, small beads of water still gleaming on his skin. He is towelling his hair; _coracobrachialis. Groove of axillary nerves and vessels. Long head of triceps muscle_. _Tuft of golden-brown hair_. Sherlock is seized with the sudden urge to smell it; to bury his head in John’s underarm and inhale.

“Sherlock?” John asks again.

Sherlock’s eyes dart from Mike to Bill and back to John again, mouth clamming shut in a thin line.

“Right,” John sighs, jerks his head, “come on then;” and he turns around and walks off to the bedroom.

Hatefully, some of his confusion must show on his face, because Mike starts making little shooing motions at him.

As he enters the bedroom, John is bent over, pulling on track pants; and _gracilius, vastus lateralis, gluteus maximu_ s.

“How’d you go last night with Lestrade?” Sherlock begins.

“Nope,” says John, attention on the pile of clothes on his bed.

“Too bad. Did you get in trouble?”

John fixes him with a baleful stare.  “Well, Rio’s police cells won’t be appearing on my Instagram, if that’s what you’re asking. You being funny now?”

“Thought’d break the ice.”

“Funny doesn’t suit you. I’d stick to ice,” John says as he pulls viciously on his shoelaces.  “So you’ve got competition this afternoon, then? Good luck with that,” he continues.

“Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it,” Sherlock begins. “I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.”

John looks at Sherlock for a moment, hands on his knees as he sits on the bed. “Right.” He gets up, walks past Sherlock and out the bedroom door.

“John? John!” Sherlock paces after John, who is marching out of the apartment and into the hallway, ignoring Mike and Bill’s heads swivelling to follow them both out.

“You are amazing! You are fantastic!”

“Yes, all right! You don’t have to overdo it,” mutters John, jabbing at the lift call button.

“You’ve never been the most _luminous_ of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable!” Sherlock babbles.

“Cheers... What?”

“Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others,” continues Sherlock, scrolling rapidly through his phone.

The side of John’s nose twitches. “Hang on – you were saying ‘Sorry’ a minute ago. Don’t spoil it. Go on: what have I done that’s so bloody stimulating?”

Sherlock darts out of the lift as it reaches the ground floor; turns and walk backwards in front of John, waving his phone in front of him. It’s his Instagram feed.

“What? I thought you didn’t have an account,” demands John.

“Not one that you know about,” replies Sherlock, still busy with the phone. “Come on, breakfast time. Then to the Arena!”

…….

For what is meant to be a beautiful and graceful sport, Rhythmic Gymnastics is certainly adding years to John’s life, he thinks.

Sherlock had slipped out during the first rotation of the women’s final and still hadn’t come back, so John was chewing on his lips and watching the second rotation. Sarah and Mary were both putting on a good show, so that was something.

He clapped absently for the athlete that had just finished, looking around the stadium for Sherlock before fumbling in his pocket for his vibrating phone.

JOHN. BACKSTAGE. COME AT ONCE IF CONVENIENT. SH

John makes it to the end of the row (“sorry, sorry, oops, sorry”) before the second text arrives.

IF INCONVENIENT, COME ANYWAY. SH

…..

Lestrade’s fists are jammed in his pockets as he stares fixedly at the ceiling, avoiding looking at the backstage commotion. John knows just how he feels. Two decades of gymnastics means this isn’t the first time he’s seen a leotard being glued to a bum, but somehow knowing that 26 world-leading athletes are wrestling themselves in and out of bits of netting and sequins just behind you feels…. indecent.  

So John stares at the floor and is never so relieved in his life as when Sherlock walks in, team jacket flapping behind him.  “Ah, excellent, excellent. Oh look, our teammates. Let’s say hello.”

Sarah is being dressed into her costume for the next routine, her coach fussing with the fit while Sarah holds a heat pack on her injured knee. Mary is sat on the floor, puffy red jacket obscuring her costume, earbuds in as she looks at her phone.

Mary jerks her head up as Sherlock drops to a crouch in front of her, leans forward and tugs on the headphone cords, popping the earbuds from her ears.

“Good morning,” he says with a terrifying smile.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” exclaims Lestrade, helping Mary up as she scoots back from Sherlock.

“Oh it’s fine, Gavin,” says Sherlock, rising smoothly to his feet. “Mary wasn’t expecting to see me, that’s all. You see, she’d been informed that I’d died. Killed, as it happens, on the roof of this very stadium.”

“What!” spits Mary, clutching her jacket tight around her, leaning into to Sherlock’s personal space. “You’re a psychopath!”

Sherlock pouts a little, feeling John bristle behind him. “Well, I’m not the one clubbing my team members, although that is perhaps because I have no team members… still, psychopath seems a bit harsh, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sherlock, that can’t be right, Mary was in the room with the coaches. They both said so,” says Sarah slowly, looking back and forth between Sherlock and Mary.

“Ah, well, what they actually say was that your coach was reviewing the scoring sheets with Mary’s coach, hello Miss Hawkins, whilst Mary was practicing her clubs routine. So your coach wasn’t looking at the room, so Mary could have been anywhere. Like out in the hall belting you, for instance.”

“With what, there was no weapon, genius!”

“Ah, well, I’m glad you asked. Miss Hawkins, Mary’s kit bag, please?”

Mary and he  coach stand stock still, so John pulls the bag forward, out from between her feet.

“Thank you, John. Miss Hawkins, the clubs.”

The coach bends down and hands Sherlock a pair of bright yellow clubs, which he tosses experimentally in the air. “No, the other ones.  Go on, we’re all waiting.”

John catches the look between Mary and her coach as another pair of clubs come out of the bag.

Sherlock tests the weight of them in his hand, smiles, and hands over one of the first set to John, and one to Sarah. “Mary’s competition clubs. How much would you say they weigh, John?”

John holds one in his hand. “Not much… about as much as phone, maybe a bit more?”

Sherlock hums. “Regulation weight, 150 grams. Now, try these ones.”

“Christ!” says John, fumbling the second club. “Weighs a ton!”

“Well, not quite John, but certainly a kilo, one and a half?  Certainly enough to knock out a few teeth on a missed throw…. And quite enough to do a number on someone’s knee, if you were so inclined.”

“Oh my God,” breathes Sarah, holding the heavy club in her hand, transfixed.

“That’s why there was no-one on the CCTV leaving, because no-one left. Huh,” says John, to Sherlock’s nod.

“Just to stop me from winning?” says Sarah through gritted teeth, holding the club in a way that makes John shift in very close, ready to prevent an assault charge.

“As if you could!” snarls Mary, taking everyone by surprise.

“Well, as it is, I think Mary is right” says Sherlock, further shocking everyone. “We all know the Russians have got the gold locked up. I think it was more just to prevent you outranking Mary in the final, who would naturally then have fewer opportunities for sponsorship and publicity at the end of the games. I think Mary was aiming for a media career and felt as if another, higher-performing athlete in the same sport was too much of a threat to that. If there’s two choices for the next season of Strictly Come Dancing, wouldn’t you choose the medal winner, even if it’s not a gold?”

“Ridiculous,” breathes Mary, glancing frantically at each of them in turn. “You can’t believe this.”

Something clicks for John. “Is that why you were attacked?” he asks, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him approvingly. “Yes, in part. I don’t believe she seriously thought anyone would find out about the attack, but a male rhythmic gymnast in the finals?   Sure to make the news back home, even if only for the novelty value.”

Mary rallies. “I was here when you were attacked, freak!”

“And how is it that you know when he was attacked, mmm?” John asks hotly.

“Because she set it up, naturally,” drawls Sherlock. “Communicated her wishes to her offsider, Moran, via Instagram, of all things.” He pulls a phone John hasn’t seen from his pocket, one with a four-leaf clover design on the case. “Rather ingenious, really. See John, this one’s me,” Sherlock says, pointing to a computer emoji on one of Mary’s posts, one of her just going into the qualification session yesterday. “And this one’s you,” he points at another one.

“Is that a hedgehog?” John asks.

“And these” Sherlock said, finger underlining at a whole emoji series, “taken as a group, instruct Moran to ensure that I am no longer a problem.”

“You can never prove it!” spits Mary.

“Oh, I think you’ll find I just did. Besides, I’m sure Moran will find Bangu prison not to his liking and want to talk it out sooner or later.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that. Is that the prison with riots a few years back?” chips in Lestrade.

“Mmm, I think some of the prisoners were beheaded,” Sherlock replies carelessly, not looking up from the phone.

“And don’t they have to eat the rats or something?” continues Lestrade with unholy gusto.

Mary pales.

At that moment, the steward comes up to Sarah and gives her the three-minute notification: get her ribbon ready, she’s on next.

“Oh God, Sarah, are you going to be right to go on?” John asks anxiously, hand on Sarah’s arm.

She looks at him scornfully. “Am _I_ going to be _right_ to go _on_? Fuckssake, Watson,” she says, thrusting Mary’s clubs into John’s chest. “And as for you,” she snarls at Mary, “you’ll see me on the podium, _bitch_!”

“Attagirl!” John calls out after her, arms full of clubs. Not looking back, she gives them all the finger as she stalks away, her coach trotting along behind.

“But what about _me!_?” wails Mary.

John spins on his heel. “ _What_ about _yo_ u? Calmly arrange for people to get clobbered and ask _what about me_? I’ll tell you what about –”

“Ah, Mr. Watson. Do accept my apologies for the interruption, but Miss Morstan has an appointment with the authorities. And Miss Hawkins, you too, of course.”

“Where the bloody hell did you spring from?” exclaims John.

“Not that you’re not very welcome, of course,” says Lestrade; causing John, Sherlock and Mycroft to all stare at him incredulously. “I mean, it’s, ah, good to see you?”

John thinks he can see the faintest hint of a blush form on Mycroft’s cheeks. “Ah, yes, likewise? Um.”

Greg looks up, hand still on the back of his neck from where he’d been rubbing it. “Well, why don’t I, ah, come with you all to, ah, wherever it is you’re going?  Team GB representation and all that.”

John watches in fascination as Mycroft starts to rub his leg with the umbrella he’s carrying, apparently unconsciously. “Yes, yes, excellent idea. After you, Miss Morstan,” he gestures with his hand, and just like that, they’re all filing out to a waiting car that’s pulled up right outside the backstage entrance.

With Mary, her coach and Lestrade in the car, Mycroft comes up to where Sherlock stands next to John. “Good luck, brother mine,” he says formally, extending his hand.

Sherlock looks at it a moment and John can practically feel them both holding their breath before Sherlock reaches out and clasps his brother’s hand.

And in a few more beats the car is pulling away, disappearing ‘round a corner.

“Well,” exhales John, looking Sherlock up and down. “A minor position in the sports ministry, was it?”

Sherlock looks at John with a quirk of his lip. “Something like that.”

“Lestrade had better watch himself then,” John says, half to himself. “Oh, c’mon, don’t tell me you didn’t see that too?”

“See _what_ , John; really, there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary to see there, completely boring,” Sherlock declares.

“Yes, completely boring,” says John, eyebrow raised. “In just the same way that it’s _never sports equipment_ , I expect.”

“Aha, Hudders!” says Sherlock hastily as Mrs Hudson stomps ‘round the corner, loaded down with kit and garment bags.

“Sherlock Holmes, I am not your porter!” she cries, dropping her cargo.

“No, indeed,” Sherlock replies, “John!”

Watching Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock walk inside, bickering fondly with one another, is its own peculiar source of comfort, John thinks. Pity comfortable can’t describe the act of wrangling various awkwardly shaped bits of kit inside, but he manages, eventually making it back inside and finding Sherlock. Sherlock who is down to a t-shirt and what looks like the tightest boxer briefs imaginable. Sherlock who, in his t-shirt and tight boxer briefs, is doing the splits on the floor. Forward-facing splits.

John feels the bags slip out of his fingers as all the blood in his brain rushes south. _Oh my God._

“Ah, John, that’s lovely, thank you,” says Mrs. Hudson cheerily, beginning to rummage around in one of the cases.

“So John, it looks like Sarah did well on her ribbon routine, isn’t that nice?”

“Yes, that’s nice, so great, great,” babbles John. On the floor, Sherlock is looking at him, but leans down so that his torso is flush with the floor.  His t-shirt has ridden up a little; two dimples, just above the swell of Sherlock’s bum, are visible. John swallows; the movement is involuntary; the instinctive response of his body to his parched mouth. _God, God, God_.

“What, no, I didn’t say anything?” John twitters as he desperately casts around for something innocuous to look at. Like that nice chair, there. Plastic. Beige. Nice. _Don’t perve, Watson!_

“Oh, oh, um, sorry,” John jabbers as he backs away from Sherlock’s legs, swinging as he changes his stretching position. Sherlock’s left leg is behind him, bent at the knee as Sherlock grips his foot overhead, forming a perfect arch with his body, still looking up at John with those blue-green eyes.

There’s a horribly indecent sound just then, and for a moment John is terrified that he’s made it.

“Oh Sherlock, haven’t you fixed that yet? At my time of life, it’s…” says Mrs. Hudson, rummaging through Sherlock’s cast-off jacket before coming up with his phone. “Well, do you want to know what it says?”

“That’s your text alert?” says John incredulously. “Your texts don’t normally make that sound.”

Sherlock makes no reply, but just changes the leg in the stretch.

“I like your funny leotard. Good luck in the finals today, I’ll be watching. Let’s have dinner. From Victor, dear,” narrates Mrs. Hudson. “Though not sure why he thinks your costume is funny; bit rude, that.”

John suddenly feels in full control of his faculties; no cold shower was ever so effective as that ill-timed text and its alert tone.

“Right, well, I should go, leave you to it,” begins John, fist opening and closing by his side as Sherlock rises to his feet. “Good luck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at the outstretched hand and takes it, looking at John’s blue eyes, crinkled against the artificial lighting, his strong, upright stance. John gives his hand one more pump, wishes him good luck again, and turns and leaves.

…….

The volunteer on the door very kindly lets John stand at the back for the medal ceremony. He’s proud, so proud; it’d been a long road to come and fight and a podium finish was what everyone dreamed of. A bronze medal. By the end of the medal ceremony it looks like it’s all about to catch up with her – Sarah looks about ready to collapse, if John’s any judge. _Ladies and Gentlemen, your next Strictly Come Dancing champion_ , he thinks with a smile.

Despite himself, he stays for the men’s finals. He doesn’t want to run into Victor, or Sherlock’s parents, or to torture himself hopelessly; but it seems so strange that after the all this time at the games, so much time together, he has never actually seen Sherlock perform in the flesh. It seems wrong to leave without seeing that, without that knowledge; and so he stays.

As it turns out, Sherlock’s performance in person is something else altogether. The hoop routine is first, the one John had watched on Lestrade’s phone. On the screen, Sherlock had seemed graceful and smooth; but in person, it is the power that strikes John the most. The height of his leaps, the casual strength in his body as he rolls and tumbles and throws the hoop. He is graceful certainly, and flexible (there is one particular step in the routine where Sherlock balances the hoop under his bum and then backflips over it that causes John to breathe a bit deeply), but it’s the energy and muscle so clearly thrumming under the surface of his skin that really makes John sit up and pay attention.

The clubs routine is different – it’s dramatic and fast paced, right from the start of the routine when Sherlock somehow rolls one of the clubs around his shoulders and neck to fall into his waiting hand before moving into a fast pirouette. The music is dark and edgy, and Sherlock look suitably intense - in what just looks like extremely tight suit trousers and an even tighter white dress shirt, but which must be something specially made. Normal buttons would not hold up to those contortions, surely?   It’s precise, cerebral – each movement like clockwork – John gasps out loud when Sherlock catches the clubs after a high throw out of his field of vision – putting out a hand behind his back, into empty space, only to have the clubs fall into it, one after the other.  Sherlock spins immediately into a complicated series of hand movements where the clubs whirl like nunchucks – and John feels sure in Sherlock’s hands they’d break a bone rather than just dislocate it if used offensively. John waits anxiously at the end of the routine but the scores are good, and Sherlock finishes the rotation in third place.

John is standing at the urinals during the break between the rotations, contemplating the mysteries of the universe (what are his chances on Strictly, realistically? Plus: he could do lots of lifts, easy. Minus: existing dance experience is mostly grinding in dark clubs) when he hears his name called.

The occupant of the urinal two over is nodding and smiling at him. “Oh, er, Mr. Holmes, hello,” John manages to get out. _Thank god there are dividers_.

“It’s Sieger, John!” he says jovially, “and where are you hiding, eh? Didn’t see you in the British area.”

Someone moves in front of the urinal between them and John hurriedly tucks himself back into his pants and moves over to the sinks. In a few moments Sieger is at the taps next to him, looking inquisitive and John is lamely trying to explain about the athlete seating regulations.

“Pish!” Sieger says over the hum of the hand dryers. “There’s plenty of space near us, you must come back with me. Vi has been looking out for you, you know.” The look he gives John indicates that no-one ever disappoints Sherlock’s mum. Not without, and this is very clear in the look, Consequences.

And so it is that before the third routine begins he is fiddling with Sieger’s iPad trying to get the live commentary feed going and simultaneously trying to follow Violet’s conversation about the Japanese competitors. He eventually succeeds, and he and Sieger settle down with a headset between them as Sherlock’s mum now can listen on her phone, an arrangement she looks quite pleased about. Violet snaps a photo of him and Sieger with their earbuds in, just as the third rotation gets underway (“so sweet, look at the pair of you”).

The next rotation is Ball, and John sits through the first few competitors somewhat awkwardly, as with the headset cord between them, he has to be careful of moving too far lest he dislodge it. The commentary’s good though, and he learns that the ball should never be grasped, it should only be balanced or rolled, which seems a mental rule for a ball sport if you ask him, but no-one did.

There’s a big flutter amongst his parents as Sherlock walks out, holding a bright yellow ball and dressed in a deep purple unitard which opens with a deep V on his chest and stops just at the top of his thigh, exposing miles of long, milk white leg. John blinks a bit, and then the music starts.

_…I put a spell on you, because you’re mine…_

It’s a slow, sensual drawl of female vocal and piano – but Sherlock is all male, prowling around the floor ball rolling down his body to be caught between his knees as he writhes on the floor. John crosses his legs and brings one hand up to cover his mouth.

_…You'd better stop the things you do, I tell you, I ain't lyin'…_

Sherlock tosses the ball up in the air, leaps across the floor, landing on hands and feet, pelvis raised up in the air before the ball falls out of the sky and Sherlock catches it between his knees. In one sinuous movement, he is up and leaping across the floor, ball bouncing along the way.

_…You know I can't stand it, you're runnin' around,_

_You know better daddy, I can't stand it ‘cause you put me down…_

Pirouettes with the ball resting on the swell of Sherlock’s bum, trapped in the arch of his back by a leg extended over his head. A headstand with the ball caught in his long, bony feet; releasing as he falls back so the ball rolls down one leg, over his groin to be caught in his hand as he completes the roll. A spin on one leg, the ball rising up his body from the floor to his above his head that emphasises all of his slim height. The splits. John bites his hand, teeth sinking into the meat of his palm.

_…I put a spell on you, because you’re mine…_

Sherlock catches the ball behind his back and ends the routine splayed on the floor, yellow ball grasped behind his back. From the stands, John can see the heave of Sherlock’s chest, panting from exertion.

 

The crowd is going absolutely mental and Sherlock’s parents are up and screaming; the live commentary is barely audible.

 

“The last time I heard that song was in the movie Fifty Shades of Grey.  Irene, did you happen to see it at the cinemas?”

 

“Rather tame Kate, I thought, rather tame.”

 

And fuck, that isn’t helping. Thanks for nothing, BBC.

 

Sherlock’s dad sits back down beside him and sticks the earbud back in, only to jump up and lose it again when the scores come in; although this time John is up on his feet, joining him. It’s a 19.05, edging out any of the other competitors, and Sherlock is in first place.

….

The leotard is gross, clammy with sweat and sticking to his skin as he peels it off and drops it on the floor. Mrs. Hudson, like the backstage pro that she is, passes him a towel of the preferred degree of softness before squirting him with some baby powder so his skin is completely dry - it’s impossible to get ballet tights on when your skin is even slightly damp.

“Well, Sherlock, that was just something, wasn’t it dear! I’m sure your young man will have found it very impressive!”

“Not my young man, Mrs. Hudson,” replies Sherlock, gently easing the first leg of tights up his calf.

“Oh, dear, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Sherlock is quite sure, as it happens. He is of course a genius, but that’s hardly necessary in this case, not with John’s horrible teammates constantly droning on about how many women he has had casual intercourse with. He sticks his other toe into the tights and rolls them on.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, dear! Not in London, there’s all sorts round. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper by the end of the sentence.

Sherlock grits his teeth and gets on with the mission of putting on his tights, rolling them down over the belt and attaching the suspenders to prevent them falling down during the performance. Mrs. Hudson critically inspects his bum to make sure the seam is straight (“give them a hoick up, right up, that’s lovely”) before helping him don the rest of the costume. Properly attired, Mrs. Hudson waves him off to the practice carpet and he starts to go through the routine; focusing on the movements, the throws and leaps, eliminating all useless information from his mind.

……   

“Holding up?” John says to Sieger at a convenient break during the rotation, even though it’s redundant; Sieger and Violet both are bouncing almost out of their skins, getting increasingly edgy as the rotation continues.

“What?! Oh, yes, yes John. Exciting isn’t it!” Sieger looks wild-eyed as he pokes his wife in the ribs. “John wants to know if you’re all right, dear. Are you all right?”

“Ah, well, the big routine coming up, bit tense for everyone, isn’t it John?”

John nods, truthfully. It’s different watching from the sidelines, knowing you can’t affect the outcome. At least when it’s your event, you’re in charge. “Why’s it the big routine?”

“Oh! Well, it’s from Don Quixote, the ballet, you know John?”

John’s response of “Err. Windmills, right?” gives Violet her cue.

“It’s a love story, of course – Kitri is in love with Basilio, but she’s being pursued by another, who she detests, but who is supported by her father. Anyway in this scene, Basilio dances a solo piece to impress Kitri, very showy, naturally. Sherlock danced this part in a school production once; he’s always loved it,” she trails off wistfully.

“Anyway, later on, the young lovers get intercepted by the father and the rejected suitor and Basilio announces that he will kill himself if he cannot be with his beloved, stabs himself right there on the stage in front of poor old Kitri, very dramatic. As he lays there dying he asks Kitri’s father for permission to marry her which he of course gives, knowing Basilio’s about to die, but you see, John, he’s faked it! He hasn’t really committed suicide at all! With that impediment removed, up pops Basilio, alive as anything, and off they go to get married and be happy ever after. It’s a bit over-wrought,” Violet reflects slowly, “but it’s terrific fun. And cracking dancing, too, of course.”

…..

Sherlock runs through the routine twice before Mrs. Hudson is waving him over to inspect his tights again and then they are making their way out to the competition floor for the fourth and final time. Sherlock looks out onto the floor, where one of his competitors is in the final stages of his routine.

_Di Renjie, 24, China._

_Current position: third (from eight). Likely final placing: fourth._

_Previous competition results: Asian Games, 2014: third._

_Training school: Beijing Sports University, Beijing._

_Beijing:_ “I mostly remember the boxer. I was sleeping on the couch for the last three days of the games.” _[Stamford, Mike; data in Watson, John: sexual history of]_

_Boxing, 2008 Beijing Olympics: final Olympic boxing competition that was exclusively competed by men. [CRITICAL UPDATE: Watson, John: sexual history of]_

…….

“Well, Irene, here comes Sherlock Holmes out to the competition floor for the fourth and final time. The matador’s jacket gives dramatic Spanish flair to his costume.” The commentator’s voice is hushed, benefitting this dramatic moment. John presses the volume button on the side of the iPad so he and Sieger can hear better.  

“The pressure’s really on with this routine Kate, this was his worst performance in the qualifications and he really seemed to struggle with some of the rope movements, not as defined and crisp as they should have been.  Probably a bit harder for him given he is one of, if not the tallest competitors here at these games, so his length of rope will be longer, requiring sharper, rapid movements to keep the rope tense. Of course the last routine showcased his excellent ball skills and a superb score, he’ll need to at least equal that though to have a shot at the medals here.”

 “Well Irene, he looks cool and collected, a small smile on his lips as he assumes his starting position for his last routine in this historic final, the first gold medal competition in men’s rhythmic gymnastics. The music begins and – my God, Irene-”

 _Jesus_. From a standing start, Sherlock takes a few steps and leaps light as air, like it’s nothing at all, red rope flying over his head. He lands and the rope falls into his hands and snaps out in front of him, and snaps again; and instantly the rope is the matador’s cape, teasing and tormenting. Another, another two huge jumps, legs split in a perfect line. He comes out of the jump on bended knee; snaps the rope again before he is off into an incredible series of pirouettes with the rope held onto this body just through momentum; he must turn seven or eight times on his pointed toe and John doesn’t need the breathless commentary of Irene and Kate to know that this is something amazing.

Sherlock is in the role completely; full of bravura and swagger, every inch the matador in complete command of his body, of his opponent, of the audience. The atmosphere in the stands is electric, the audience spellbound – gasping and cheering as Sherlock does the seemingly impossible, one leap after another with the rope clutched in his hand, toes; entwined around his body, or soaring in the air only to fall into his waiting hand. The routine finishes with a complex turn and Sherlock down on one knee, one arm extended above his head – the triumphant Olé is silent but the audience has heard it, they know they have seen something special, the deafening roar in the arena drowning out everything else.

Sieger and Violet are crying, embracing; Mycroft is screaming, lion clutched to his chest; Sherlock is rising to his feet; and John is looking down at him feeling as if his heart will burst out of his chest.  Surely, he thinks, surely that’s it, that’s enough, with that routine that was gymnastics and ballet and _Sherlock,_ that has to be it; there is justice in the world along with truth and beauty and love so surely, surely, please god, let it be enough.

And the scores come in and it is, it’s not only _enough_ , it’s a 19.425 and that’s huge, it’s fucking astronomical, no-one will catch him; Sherlock will win the gold medal. The crowd is going nuts; Sherlock’s face on the camera looks stunned, shocked stock-still with Mrs. Hudson sobbing into his shoulder; and John’s face is wet too, but it doesn’t matter because Sieger and Violet and Mycroft all have their arms round him crying joyful tears into his hair and who minds anything when an Olympic gold medal happens to the love of your life?

……

It’s a beautiful night outside; dusk is falling but the warmth of the day still lingers, and with it the slight salty tang of the ocean. For having spent two hours sitting watching other people compete, John is exhausted; and from the look on Violet and Sieger’s faces, they are feeling it too. John’s legs feel a bit wobbly, but Sherlock’s parents look like they are holding each other up as they wave off Mycroft a few paces away. They’re then immediately spied by a BBC camera crew and John watches a few paces away as they are interviewed for the folks back home; teary, gushy and so, so proud. John feels as if the smile will never leave his face.

“So, you are a couple then?”

John turns. _Well, it had to happen_ , he thinks, mood immediately laced with tendrils of sourness. _Fencing bloody Idris Elba had to show up too_. “Evening Victor,” he says, already turning back to look at Sherlock’s parents.

“If you don’t say anything, what am I supposed to say?” Victor tries again.

“What do you normally say?” snaps John, turning back to him. “You’ve been texting him.”

A smile curls on one side of Victor’s face. “Just the usual stuff.”

“There is no ‘usual’ in this case.”

Victor pulls out his phone and swipes across its surface. “‘Good morning’; ‘I like your funny tracksuit’; “I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner’; ‘You looked sexy on “Sportswatch.” Let’s have dinner’; ‘I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner’.” 

“You…flirted with Sherlock Holmes?” John grits out, blindingly jealous.

Victor is still looking at his phone. “ _At_ him. He never replies.”

John swallows. “No, Sherlock always replies – to everything. He’s Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word.”

“Does that make me special?”

John’s jaw works. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Are you jealous?” challenges Victor.

John exhaled sharply through his nose. “We’re not a couple.”

“Yes you are,” said Victor through clenched teeth. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”

In the tense few moments that follow, it doesn’t escape John’s attention that Victor does not in fact offer his congratulations.

“Amour, toux et fumée en secret ne sont demeurés, Jean,” Victor said eventually.

“Oh?” hedges John.

“Oh,” repeats Victor, mockingly. “Well, perhaps you should go and find your party, hmm?” 

John turns, but the Holmeses are gone, swept up in the exiting crowds.

“Or perhaps not?” Victor smirks.

John watches the back of Victor’s head dissolve into the retreating crowds and clenches his fist. He needs a cup of tea. But first, he has a text to send.

….

He doesn’t get a reply until much later that evening.

Yes I know. SH

_Berk._

Harsh, John. SH

_But fair. So are you out celebrating then?_

I am having dinner with my parents and brother. There are no chips on the menu. This does not qualify as ‘celebrating’. SH

_So when there’s chips it’s a party?_

My mother wishes to know if you will be at the gala performance tomorrow. SH

_Get busted texting at the table?  Not going to show I AM the show. Pbars. Please convey to your esteemed parents my hope to see them there. Are you in it?_

No. SH

_No not in it or no not talking to your folks?_

The masses have had enough spectacle from me. I leave it to lessor performers. I may, however, grace it with my presence. SH

_Thought so. C u there._

If you are inestimably fortunate. SH

John curls his hands around his mug of tea and smiles down at the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They really do glue their leotards to their bums. [There's a special glue](http://www.dancemania.biz/staysput-body-adhesive-50ml-large-bottle.html) for it and everything.
> 
> Killer emojis is the [Adventure of the Dancing Men](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Dancing_Men) for the 21st century. Moftiss, you're welcome to use this idea - all I ask in return is a set visit (and maybe a private dinner). Hope to hear from you soon x
> 
> Bangu prison [really is terrible](http://www.newstalk.com/A-look-behind-the-bars-at-Brazils-Bangu-Prison).
> 
> I had a lot of fun researching and writing Sherlock's routines and I hope they were exciting and enjoyable to read. They were all based off real performances at the Rio Olympics, to a greater or lesser extent. Here is the inspiration for his [hoop routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9c1kROcxwU) (16:56). His [clubs performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJC8rllhkBI)(10:30). [The ball routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4s062bkkQY) though is what began it all. I was watching the Olympics on the couch, Ganna Rizatdinova walked on to the floor, and I thought "oh look, it's the Purple Shirt of SexTM: Rhythmic Gymnastics Limited Edition". And then I thought "Didn't some sports challenge come up on my dash today?" And here we are, several months and 45 thousand words later. Thanks Ganna, and congrats on your bronze medal.  
> 
> 
> Sherlock's rope routine is a different creature and based on the [famous ballet variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRJtMgD6ia8) (a fancy ballet name for a solo) from Don Quixote. Incredible, right? Rope routines are not performed at Olympic level RG (boo) but here's Rubén Orihuela, the gymnast from yesterday's notes, [performing a rope routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4wK7WJZ2XXc).
> 
> It's really Mummy's lion toy, she just makes Mycroft hold it. He's called Pride the Lion (really), which works on a lot of levels for this story.  
> 
> 
> And Victor's observation to John? "Love, smoke and a cough are hard to hide", which is an wonderful French proverb. We totally need it in the English language.
> 
>  **TOMORROW** With the formal gymnastics programme over, it's time for the Gala event, a fun and informal exhibition day for the athletes to show off a little. John's a natural.


	15. August 19th, Olympic Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives some friendly advice, and deploys some of the 'Watson magic'.

The queue by the bus stop feels humdrum by now, with the games now well and truly close to the end. The gymnastics team in their familiar looking uniforms look relaxed and rested, although Anderson looks pretty hungover. They’re all in holiday mode, laughing and joking as they all pile onto the bus. John notices Molly takes the seat next to Mike, sporting a similar looking pleased-but-flustered expression.  Behind him, Henry is taking a poll of what event everyone’s going to see after the gala, trying to decide between the Athletics or the Diving.

As the bus zips along the express ‘Olympic traffic’ lane towards the park, John’s phone remains silent, although Lestrade next to him is getting texts aplenty, it seems. Lestrade hadn’t volunteered much, but it seems like Mary had been quietly shipped back to Britain to languish at Her Majesty’s pleasure, which John can’t feel bad about. He wonders idly if Moran has had the same privilege, because a part of him (a large part) isn’t sad at the thought of him fighting off rats in prison. John shakes the thought from his mind and thinks about his gala routine, pondering the correct amount of Watson magic to apply.

He hasn’t quite made up his mind before the bus pulls up and they’re all blinking in the bright glare and the others are waving him goodbye as they head to the spectators entrance; John and his coach heading back around the building to the athletes’ entrance for the final time. Lestrade is tugging his sleeve, dragging him further round the building to – oh.

The Holmeses are there in their little family group, all clutching onto comically large takeaway coffee cups. Lestrade is cheerily waving, half-dragging John behind, who suddenly knows what at least some of those texts were about.

Seeing Sherlock’s parents raise their arms in greeting, John goes to return the gesture, only for Violet to delightedly call out ‘Gregory!’

John looks up at his coach who looks blushingly pleased and swoops in to kiss Sherlock’s mum on the cheek. John is grudgingly impressed, and it’s his turn next as Violet plants one on his face and gives his arm a little squeeze.

John beams back at her, then looks around for Sherlock, who is standing several feet away with his brother, having a conversation that appears to be taking place entirely through the medium of eyebrow raising and supercilious expressions.

“Look at these boys of mine,” says Sieger fondly from behind John’s shoulder. “Geniuses, you know. But utter morons, the pair of them.”

John chokes back a startled laugh. “I was hoping to run into you today,” he starts, rummaging through his backpack. “I’ve got something for you.” He hands over the battered A4 envelope, feeling suddenly nervous, like he wants to rip it back and forget the whole thing.

But it’s too late, Sieger is peering into the envelope with an expression of rapture. He sticks his hand in and pulls out a few, gazing at the glint of brass and enamel in his palm. “Oh, John,” he says emotionally, looking at the others rattling around in the bottom of the envelope. “Look at them all.”

“I’ve been swapping them ‘round the village for you, since you were collecting them,” says John by way of explanation. “I thought you might like them.”

Sieger tips the pins back into the envelope. “John, a word to the wise,” he says, eyes suddenly sharp and voice firm. “Sherlock could look at you and tell you what jam you had at breakfast, but he’s an oblivious idiot when it comes to some things, do you understand?” John swallows and nods. “I don’t think Mycroft is much better, so you can pass on the message to that coach of yours as well. Be bold, but for Christ’s sake, John, be obvious, because I don’t want these bloody numpties to die alone.”

“Right,” says John. “Right, yes, I see.”

“Good,” says Sieger, pale eyes peering down at him. “I see you do.”

John blinks rapidly and Mycroft and Sherlock are approaching the group again, neither looking particularly impressed.

“Look at what John’s given me, Sherlock,” says Sieger, hand full of pins once again. “This one’s from Norway, look.”

Sherlock dutifully looks down at the pins in his father’s hand and turns his head to look at John, inscrutable expression on his face.

“Oh, what’s this big one?” Sieger says, and even as Sherlock turns his head down to look at what his aged father has pulled out of the envelope, John knows with a sick feeling of dread what it is.

Sieger holds it up to his eye where the green foil glints in the sun. As if in slow motion, Sherlock and Mycroft both turn to look at John. Sherlock looks as if he is running through every synonym for idiot that he knows, trying to decide in which order he should unleash them upon John. Mycroft just looks murderous. John feels the flood of adrenaline through his system, his legs itching to run him away from this horrific situation.

“Oh, I say!” says Sieger, and breaks into peals of laughter. “Bet no-one else will have one of these, eh?” he chokes out. “Wait till I show this to the chaps down at the Arms! Ho-ho, we hear about what you lot get up to don’t we? Well, well,” he says, still chuckling. “An Olympic condom of my very own, what a thrill.” He smiles at it fondly before dropping it back into the envelope.

John sags limply on his feet as Lestrade grabs his arm and starts steering him away before anybody else can say anything. “Well, perhaps we’ll run into each other after the gala, yes?  But we must go now! Enjoy the show!”

Lestrade is hissing into John’s ear as he drags him into the building, but John’s too busy thinking over his near-death experience to pay attention.

“Christ! Are you even listening to me?!” Lestrade practically roars once they are inside.

“No,” says John, shaking his arm free of his coach’s grip. “Also, I need to change my song.”

…….

_Cat lover. Tinea. Disappointing hotel breakfast._

_Accountant. Reads zombie novels. Recently contracted an STI, and not from his girlfriend._

_Frustrated hockey player. Adopted. Bakes own bread._

These people are all _boring_. _Dull_. God, when will this blighted performance be over? This hateful show is meant to be fun, fun for the crowd with all the athletes and ‘entertainment’ on display, and fun for the athletes with no scoring to worry about. _Fun_. Sherlock has had more fun taping his toes back together after dance practice.

He fidgets and squirms in his seat, occasionally being shot quashing looks by hateful Mycroft who sits statue-still, hands resting on the umbrella upright between his legs. On his other side, Father is too busy examining his new pins and sticking them into his hat to pay much heed to Sherlock’s frustrated sighs. And Mummy is thoroughly enjoying the show, clapping and ‘ooh-aah’ing at the appropriate spots and resolutely ignoring them all.

It’s intolerable.

Mummy is still enthusiastically clapping the Chinese tumblers when, sure as a compass needle, Sherlock is drawn to a small figure in blue hovering at the sides of the arena floor.  Then the tumblers are walking off and John is walking up to the parallel bars, and the announcer is calling out John’s name, reminding everyone that he is a double gold medallist. They neglect to mention the bronze, because they are clearly incompetent. The crowd is applauding warmly, particularly, Sherlock thinks with a scowl, the female portions of it. God knows, even his mother is sitting on the edge of her seat.

“Hmm, I wonder what John has got in store for us today, hmmm?” says his father idly, finally putting his hat down on the floor. Sherlock himself is, well, perhaps not wholly immune to it - but that’s probably just the excitement of his incipient return to London talking.

John’s music starts, something vacuous and cheerful; under the bars John is clapping along, swivelling his hips and smiling. Sherlock crosses his legs as John rubs some extra powder off his hands, makes some sort of ‘hands-up’ gesture to the crowd (what could this mean? Effect: increased cheering volume) and launches himself up onto the bars, effortlessly swinging up into the handstand position and then clapping with his feet. “Oooh, so clever,” says Mummy, clapping along. Sherlock rolls his eyes as John does another few spins on the bars, coming back to a handstand position again.

John slowly drops down one foot, then the other and slowly adjusts his centre of gravity so that he is standing upright on the bars, one foot balanced on each. John is doing his little dance again, fists circling each other and hips rolling. Although rationally it is impossible, as John will have too many lights and be too far away to pick out Sherlock in the crowd; he appears to be staring straight at Sherlock. Sherlock gulps. One side of John’s mouth cocks up into a smile and his pink tongue peeks out to wet his lips. He look positively predatory. Sherlock has a sudden, complete, and unambiguous understanding of how a small man who spends most of his life in a tracksuit has a nickname like Three Continents.

Still with that smile, John slides one hand up his chest (rectus abdominus. Pectoralis major) and over his shoulder (deltoid), takes a gentle hold of the strap of his leotard and slides one arm out of it. Sherlock’s chest feels peculiar. John slides the other arm out of his uniform and rucks it down his body, arranging it neatly on his hips (rather low on the hip) and walking closer on the bars. It reveals a patch of purple bruising, shot through with red scrapes, the sort you might get trying not to fall off a rooftop. Sherlock wheezes in a breath of air.

John, still apparently looking right at him, is moving his arms and doing some kind of rolling motion with his midsection that is whiting out parts of Sherlock’s brain.   _Abs,_ he thinks _. All the abs. Many abs_.

Is it at this moment that his brain latches on to the music, obviously as a desperate attempt to save itself from lustful self-immolation.

_…come to me baby, don’t be shy, don’t be shy…_

John has spun round on the bars and bent over a little, waggling his bum at Sherlock. Left, right, up, down.

_…come to me baby, don’t be shy, don’t be shy…_

John is bent almost in half now, bottom pointed right at Sherlock as his legs tap out behind him. Sherlock is helpless. Stranded by reason. Destitute of logic. Bereft of any capability to do anything other than watch John’s bum bounce in time to the music.

John turns around again and blows a kiss to the audience, who have passed through rowdy, left behind boisterous and have happily arrived at earsplitting as John does another handstand before swinging down and off the bars to dismount. Sherlock stares after the retreating blond figure and crosses his legs.

“Well, Irene, wasn’t that a stimulating way to end the gymnastics programme here in Rio?”

“Kate, hard to imagine a more rousing finale to these games. Young John Watson finishing with a punchy routine there, sure to leave everyone satisfied.”

…..

Sherlock has never been gladder of his parent’s typical dilatory progress through public spaces than he is when John bounces towards him, ruddy and smiling, outside the arena.

“Hello,” he said, as if all the planets and stars are not orbiting him; “I don’t think I’ve actually said congratulations to you in person yet.”

Sherlock feels his mouth open, but his mother swoops in before he can get anything out. “Ah! John! Greg! How nice – why don’t we all have lunch?”

“Oh, I’m afraid we can’t, Violet,” John said smoothly. “Sherlock and I need to go to a gymnastics team meeting back at the Village, you know, official wrap-up, now that the competition is over.”

“Yes,” butts in Lestrade. “Very important. Mycroft, perhaps you’d like to come back to the village with me to, er, inspect the accommodations on behalf of the ministry?”

Sherlock looks at his brother’s face: curiosity, excitement and a soupçon of…nerves?   “Ye-es, yes, an excellent notion. Ensure standards are being upheld, and such. Yes.”

Lestrade beams, Mycroft volunteers his car, and they are walking off.

“Well, perhaps another time,” said Violet, dismayed.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future, dear. Meanwhile, there’s Caipirinhas at the hotel bar, so all is not lost, eh, darling girl?” Sherlock, eyes closed at his parent’s shameful behaviour, so he misses the huge wink his father throws at John over his wife’s shoulder as they walk away.

“C’mon,” said John, voice low, “there’s the bus.”

Sherlock is incredibly conscious of the warmth of John’s body as the bus trundles back to the village. Sherlock catalogues the points of contact; pushed together at shoulder; thigh and knee. Sherlock looks out the window, like always. And John, like always, like he’s never noticed, looks equal parts straight ahead, and at Sherlock.

They walk quickly back to the GB building, John breaking out into a laughing run when it comes into sight. Surprised, Sherlock starts to run behind him, blood pounding as he remember this; other days, nights, running back to this place. But as John looks at him, breathless and happy in the lift up to the eighth floor, he’s not sure what will happen this time.

John follows him very closely out of the lift; he’s half-pressing Sherlock into the door to his room as he opens it. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, it feels as if only the top half of his lungs are taking in any air; he stumbles a little as the door opens and he enters into the room. He turns to face John, who is heading into the bedroom. _That seems a little…forward?_ Sherlock thinks in rising panic. _Surely there’s supposed to be more….something?_

John comes darting back into the room with a long sock in his hand, opens up the apartment door and ties the sock firmly around the handle, before shutting it with a grand gesture.

Sherlock is still frozen in the middle of the floor.

“Sherlock?” John asks uncertainly.

“John, God, I don’t – I’ve never – I’m.” Sherlock clams his jaw shut, eyes closed.

“Sherlock,” John says again, rough and drawn out. “D’you want to sit on the couch? Because right now I’d just really, really like to kiss you. If that’s ok with you.” John swallows. “If that’s what you want.”

On wobbly legs, Sherlock heads over to the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gymnastics gala is [a real event on the programme](https://www.bustle.com/articles/179174-what-is-the-gymnastics-gala-rio-will-include-a-friendly-competition-for-the-olympians) and is just as described in the story, a chance for the Olympians to funk out a bit and have fun. 
> 
> John's parallel bars dance is [brought to you tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZy7BM7oMeY) by US gymnast Danell Leyva. John dances to [The Knock's _Classic_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emOKaGi8u5U%20).  
> 
> 
> Just in case you were uncertain about the muscles: [The Brazilian team](https://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/cum-to-brazil?utm_term=.aoEyNMNEP#.yymVDrDnk) this time.
> 
> **TOMORROW** a brief interlude at the Olympic Village.


	16. August 20th, Olympic Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens in the village, stays in the village.

Bill stares glumly into the pile of McNuggets.

“Oh, perk up, you, Anderson’s not that bad,” Mike says gaily, grabbing a handful of fries.

“Like hell he’s not,” Bill mutters. “Now that you’ve buggered off to Molly’s room, he was all excited to have the room and he’s taking it out on me that I’ve camped there. He keeps having extra loud sex, I can hear him from bloody outside. Not that he lasts long, but still. It’s not right, Mike, it’s not right!  They haven’t come out since yesterday. I knocked this morning and they’re still bloody going. I sent John a text to ask if I could come in and get some fresh pants, look what I get!”

Mike reaches out for the phone with greasy fingers.

It’s a text from an unknown number, and it reads: ‘No sock, no room. SH’. Mike guffaws, sending a spray of special sauce at the screen.

“They haven’t even come out for food, it’s unnatural!” Bill continues, having worked up a proper head of steam now. “They’re bloody well still in there, eating up all my protein bars and using my condoms, I know it!”

“Could be worse” says Mike gaily. “They could be charging you for all of those cheeseburgers.” He points at the nuggets. “Are you going to eat them?”

Bill sighs with the despair of a man in yesterday’s pants. The day before yesterday’s technically, because of that Kiwi girl. He sighs again.

“Mmm!” says Mike, pointing at the queue with his jumbo coke.

Bill turns ‘round. There’s John in the queue, team t-shirt on back to front. And Sherlock too, hair all mussed and sticking up at the back, staring up dazedly at the McDonald’s menu.

“Oh shit, now’s my chance,” Bill jumps up and runs away, or as quickly as someone can run with a gutful of free McDonald’s.

Mike watches him go. He’s left the nuggets behind, which is excellent.

He looks up; John looks up, calling out a greeting.

“You’ve emerged then, have you?”

“Yeah, well.” He smirks. “Sherlock was tired of protein bars, so…. Shit, mate, are you ok?”

John thumps Mike soundly on the back as he chokes. “Gotta watch those nuggets mate, they’re bloody killers. Sure you’re ok?”

………

Sherlock huffs. His bum cheeks jiggle as John’s stubby fingers gently tap out the rhythm of the song, humming along.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t like it” John says lazily, very close to Sherlock’s ear, one hand curling through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock huffs again.

“Tall and pale and young and lovely,” John croons.

“Those are not the correct words.”

“Well, three out of four. Take what you can get, that’s my advice.” He shifts up onto his knees, straddles Sherlock’s thighs.

He runs fingers feather-light up Sherlock’s flank, drawing circles and waves. “Each one he passes goes ‘aaaahhh.’”

“When he passes, each one he passes goes, ‘oooohhh.’”. Sherlock squirms into the single bed as John’s fingers trace patterns back down to his hips, breathing the lyrics into his ear.

“How can I tell him I love him? Yes, I would give my heart glad-llllyyyy…”

“Johnnnnn.”

“Don’t you like my singing?” John breathes out onto Sherlock’s heated skin, planting a wet kiss at the base of his neck. “I like telling you you’re tall and pale and young and lovely.”

Sherlock hums. “It’s diabolical.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” John said conversationally, running his hands over Sherlock’s bum, watching shivers spreading like ripples over his lover’s skin. “What are you going to do about it, I wonder?”

 _Not a thing_ , Sherlock thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McDonalds is the official restaurant of the Olympics. And they have an official restaurant at the Olympic Village where the athletes can eat for free. Cos after years of calorie counting and nutritional planning, you have your event, and what do you do? [Eat so much maccas they need to impose a 20-item limit](http://europe.newsweek.com/rio-olympics-athletes-eating-mcdonalds-490813?rm=eu).  
> 
> 
> John is of course singing the iconic Brazilian song, the Girl from Ipanema (with a few minor modifications). John listens to [the Frank Sinatra version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4mCzmNDEIk), because of course he does.
> 
>  **TOMORROW**. Guys, it's the last chapter, and we're back where it all began at the Maracanã Stadium. Are you ready?


	17. August 21st, Maracanã Stadium, Rio de Janeiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are back where we started: the Maracanã Stadium, to put the cap on a fortnight of sports, crime, and love. Merry Christmas, all.

Fourteen days ago John was here, in this same backstage area, listening to the same song he’d been tapping out on Sherlock’s bum just yesterday. Huh. Probably best not to think about that though, the shorts not having much give in them.

Fourteen days ago, Sherlock was leaning into his ear and spilling all of John’s secrets to him without having spoken a single word to him before. And in those fourteen days since, John had seen him do miracles again and again, lightning mind contained inside a body of power and grace, a body that John had had his hands and lips and skin on. Miracles.

But where was he now?  John had (reluctantly) waved him off back to his own room to get ready for the closing ceremony with strict instructions to wear his medal and not to forget to charge his shoes. But the buses out to stadium had been manic and John hadn’t seen him and Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone. He chewed at his lip.

The gymnastics crew was all together, huddled backstage, just like fourteen days ago, but with some pretty impressive new hardware. Unconsciously, John smooths down the ribbons of his medals, pressing them flat against his chest. The team is dancing and bopping as they wait to go out, waving the little Team GB flags they’d all be given along with the special closing ceremony uniforms. John even has a proper full size flag tucked under one arm that he’d been given.

“He’s here, I’m sure,” said Sarah, appearing at his elbow. “Yes, you are that obvious.”

John smiled. “Plans when you get back to London?”

“Oh you know, the usual. Finish my degree. Hopefully make a few bucks going on Saturday Kitchen. As long as I can avoid going on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me out of Here, I’ll be winning, I think,” Sarah laughs.

“I thought it was all Strictly Come Dancing with you lot,” John accused.

“Well, it’s £100k if you win, you know that don’t you?” Sarah looks at John, spluttering in suprise. “I thought for sure you were gunning for it with your little parallel bars ‘look at me, I have abs’ dance,” she continues. “No? Well, stay by the phone, and if you don’t want it, tell them to ring me.”

“Woo- Earth to John!” Bill nudges him with a flashing shoe to the midsection. John blinks, but Bill has got Sarah up on his shoulders and is waving her feet at John. “Get a move on!”

They are moving out, the long line slowly snaking out through the one entrance into the stadium.  For as long as the eye can see in front and behind is a swarm of white jackets and shoes flashing up in blue, white and red. He shakes the flag out from under his arm and starts walking out into the music and the lights.

Short stature might be alright for being a gymnast, he thinks sourly, but it’s bloody rubbish for trying to find someone in a crowd. It’s started to rain a little and John looks around him but it’s just a sea of uniforms and camera flashes.

Suddenly he gets another shoe to the side. “It’s lover boy!” Sarah hollers above the noise, pointing back into the crowd before clasping onto Bill’s head as she sways dangerously. “With the blue and yellow!”

The flip side of not being able to see anyone is that you can get a bit sneaky if you need to, and John slowly meanders backwards in the crowd of athletes, avoiding the ushers shooing athletes along the avenue of flags. With a bit of ducking and weaving and a dash of strategic side-standing and flag-waving, John soon sees Sherlock walking towards him.

He’s with a group of other Brits yet apart from them, aloof and self-contained. Hands buried in his jacket pockets, the bright lights of the stadium reflect different casts on his skin; red, green, yellow. There’s just the hint of a smile on his face as he draws closer to John.

“Hello,” John says quietly, barely audible. He falls naturally into step beside Sherlock, clearing his throat as he shakes the flag out in front of him.

“I’m glad you made it,” he tries again. “The shorts suit you.”

Sherlock gives John a quelling look before turning his attention back to the crowd.

“No, I’m serious. They show off your calves. Really.” John looks up at Sherlock, feeling the first cold tendrils. “Why didn’t you meet me at the bus? Did you, did you not want…” John trails off, throat thick.

Sherlock looks high, out at the lights. “TV moment, John, the world is watching.”

John sniffs. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” His voice drops. “Do you… not want to be seen with me?”

Sherlock looks down, finally. “You’ll be a public figure when you get back, John. This might be… complicated, post-games.”

John looks down at his shoes, flashing as he walks along. “I don’t – I want –.” John takes a deep breath.

With a sudden twist of the flag, he flips it behind himself and holds one corner out behind Sherlock’s head, “Go on, take it, you idiot.” Sherlock does so, mutely, and they walk along a little farther, flag billowing out behind their heads.

“Sherlock, did you know that the prize money on Strictly Come Dancing is one hundred thousand pounds?” John licks his lips. “Wouldn’t even have to win to get enough money to rent a nice little flat in London while we finish uni, my residency; not much, we wouldn’t need much space, I thought, and then if we both earnt some extra on the side, we’d be doing pretty well, I thought, wouldn’t have to survive on beans and toast and we could go to the sea, to the Calanques, just like you talked about. We could do that every year even, if we went on the cheap, if that’s what you wanted, Sherlock, because that’s what I want.” He licks his lips.

“I didn’t know, last time we were here, what I wanted then, what my life would look like, after this was all over.  I still don’t, I suppose; dunno if winning a celebrity talent show really counts as a plan, but what I do want of my life is to have you in it, Sherlock. That’s what’s important. What….what do you want?”

John looks up at Sherlock; looking at the bright colours of the Union Jack flapping behind Sherlock’s head. He feels the pull of the flag in his hand as much as the pull of his eyes in his heart, these tremulous bonds between them. Sherlock is looking at him, face serious under the mop of unruly hair.

“John Watson,” Sherlock pauses, licking his lips, “John Watson, if _anyone_ in this relationship is going to win Strictly Come Dancing, I’m quite certain that it’s me.”

It’s quite hard to kiss someone while walking along; it’s hard to coordinate the lips while noses and chins are in motion. It doesn’t actually work until John grips Sherlock’s chin in his hand, flag pulled across this chest as he leans and touches his lips to Sherlock’s.

The stadium absolutely explodes in sound, and John pulls back and looks around “What was that??!”

“I believe we were just shown on the big screen,” Sherlock replies, not taking his eyes from John.

“Oh,” says John, winding his free arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Well, let’s find a seat and see if we can get it on it again, shall we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [closing ceremony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssc5eLjLoMQ) goes for three hours, so my advice is to grab some eggnog and invent a drinking game. The Brits come in at about the 30 minute mark, and there are some fun shots at 1:13:00ish of the light-up shoes when everyone's seated.
> 
> The [closing ceremony uniforms](http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-lancashire-37120326) are cool, but the best part by far is the [shoes](http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/fashion/style/news/a45457/team-gb-light-up-trainers-olympics-closing-ceremony-2016/) \- they really do light up!  
> 
> 
> I commissioned an **illustration of this chapter** from one of my fave Sherlock fanartists, thetwelthpanda, as a way to keep myself accountable to this story. [View it here. IT IS AMAZING ](http://sweetmandolins.tumblr.com/post/154924004373/earlier-this-year-i-commissioned-thetwelfthpanda). She did an absolutely unreal job and the details are incredible. 
> 
> **THANK YOU GUYS** for sticking with this story all the way to the end. If you enjoyed it, I would really appreciate your kudos, comment or a signal boost! Concrit is also welcome - feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://sweetmandolins.tumblr.com/). Thankyou to those of you who left a comment or kudo already - this is actually my first fanfic *blushes* and the first time I have written for pleasure in more than 10 years, so you guys have really made it extra-special. 
> 
> And of course, it's Christmas Day. Have a wonderful holiday, however you celebrate it, and I hope you are celebrating with people you love and that love you. See you on the other side of Season Four. Mwa x


End file.
